


Eidolons Everlasting

by aveari



Series: Eidolons [3]
Category: The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Herongraystairs, Multi, Poly triad, The Final Installment of Eidolons!, daemon AU, mostly - Freeform, mostly canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-05-05 15:32:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aveari/pseuds/aveari
Summary: Charlotte had been warned that the boy coming from the Shanghai Institute was not well. And it was true, she supposed. From the moment she’d seen him, stepping out of the Brothers’ carriage, he had indeed looked pale and drawn, his hair oddly streaked with silver. He was agreeable enough, smiled in a gentle, quiet way, and always seemed to take up as little space as possible, the better to watch and listen.But when he had no choice but to speak, his daemon Kasimela spoke for him.----------------------The third and final installment of Eidolons, a canon-compliant daemon AU. Title from Eidolons by Walt Whitman, chapter titles from 'I think I was enchanted' by Emily Dickinson.





	1. When First a Somber Girl

 

**1847**

 

“I’m afraid,” said a little girl, her feet swinging off the edge the bed. She looked younger than twelve, hair pulled back in a ribbon and dark eyes wide in her face. Her little mouse daemon sat upon her shoulder. “Papa, will you stay with me?”

 

Aloysius Starkweather frowned. He didn’t like to see weakness in any of his progeny, and Adele had always been smaller, more hesitant than her brothers and sister. But he couldn’t deny that, nevertheless, it was nice to be asked.

 

“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said, gruffly. “The Brothers will come in. Since you are old enough, now, they will Mark you. It will sting, at first, but you must not cry out. It will make you stronger. It means you are a part of our bloodline.”

 

Adele nodded. “And then there’ll be a party?”

 

“Yes,” said a voice from the doorway. His wife, gray eyes sparkling, brown curls piled on her head. Aloysius inclined his head to her. “And gifts, and celebration.”

 

“I’m glad,” said Adele, and she didn’t even flinch when, behind her mother, two Silent Brothers entered the room. She smiled up at them, bravely extending her arm for the ceremony.

 

Her brothers and sister followed, in red gear and golden jewelry, and together, they watched.

 

 _Adele Lucinda Starkweather,_ said the Brother. _Do you accept this Mark of the Angel that I bestow upon you?_

 

“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling, and he touched a ceremonial stele to her arm. She watched in fascination as the shape of the rune for Strength took form, but then winced, looking away. She bit her lip, seemingly mindful of Aloysius’ instruction not to cry out, but on her shoulder, her daemon whined.

 

“Stop,” he said, even as Adele frantically shook her head to quiet him. “No, _stop, please -_ ”

 

Aloysius froze. Adele’s eyes were full of pain. Not the sort of pain he had expected, the short sting and then nothingness. This was agony, tears welling up and starting to spill over. He jumped to his feet.

 

“Stop,” he said, “Something’s wrong -”

 

But the rune was already completed. Blood dripped off of the stele, shockingly red, and for all that Adele had promised not to make a sound, as the skin began to burn black and peel from the bone of her arm, all she could do was scream.

 

* * *

 

**1873**

 

“Will?” Charlotte Branwell eased the door to the training room open. “Will, are you in there?”

 

A noncommittal grunt. Her charge was lying on one of the benches, staring up at the lines of sunlight slanting through the window. His daemon Issalinde, in the form of a ragged-looking young dog, sat beside him, uninterested. She didn’t run and chase the dust in the air, as most children’s daemons tended to do (and as even Charlotte’s own Raimond still did on occasion, though she knew she was too old for such childish things.)

 

Charlotte had never heard Issalinde speak. Raimond had informed her of Issalinde’s name, so surely she must speak to other daemons, but it had never been in front of her.

 

That was another reason, she thought, that introducing her new charge to this one might be a good idea.

 

William Herondale sat up, shaking his head. “What is it, Charlotte?”

 

“I told you yesterday,” she said, “that we’d be having a new arrival. Someone besides Jessamine, that you could perhaps talk to. Don’t you remember?”

 

“I remember,” said Will. “I just don’t care.”

 

The boy who was still lurking behind Charlotte made a stifled noise. It might have been a laugh, or an exasperated sigh, or both. It was hard to tell, sometimes, for this child didn’t speak at all.

 

Charlotte had been warned that the boy coming from the Shanghai Institute was not well. And it was true, she supposed. From the moment she’d seen him, stepping out of the Brothers’ carriage, he had indeed looked pale and drawn, his hair oddly streaked with silver. He was agreeable enough, smiled in a gentle, quiet way, and always seemed to take up as little space as possible, the better to watch and listen.

 

But when he had no choice but to speak, his daemon Kasimela spoke for him.

 

She was still unsettled, though tended towards forms of foxes or cats. While not talkative per se, she rested in the boy’s lap and occasionally murmured a thanks, an introduction, or - once - a full few sentences in her melodic voice.

 

“Will,” said Charlotte now, “be polite. I’d like to introduce you to Ke - Ke Jian -” she stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds.

 

“He has an English name,” said Kasimela, quiet. “James. James Carstairs.”

 

“James Carstairs, of the Shanghai Institute,” finished Charlotte.

 

James Carstairs, of the Shanghai Institute, had stepped forward into the room, looking Will over with a friendly curiosity. Will got to his feet and glared back, but James only watched, as if appraising him and deciding he liked what he saw.

 

Then, to Charlotte’s great surprise, he opened his mouth.

 

“Jem,” he said, without a trace of an accent. “Everyone calls me Jem.” He looked Will in the eyes, not shrinking back from his glare. “You can too.”

 

Will huffed. “If everyone calls you that, it’s no great favor to me, is it?”

 

Jem continued without acknowledging this. “I haven’t trained since I left. I could use a sparring partner.” Now that he had found his voice, Kasimela wandered from his side, becoming a small dog and examining Issalinde with a clear gaze. Issalinde didn’t strike out, but didn’t engage, either.

 

“Well, so could I,” said Will, “but not one who looks as if he’s doddering off to the grave. You look like you’re about to die any second now.”

 

Charlotte flinched. She had learned from the Consul, and the Shanghai Enclave, that James Carstairs _was_ dying. He was dependent on some sort of medicine, something that would prolong his life, but not save it. _Oh, Will._

 

Jem didn’t seem upset. “I am,” he said, as if discussing the weather. “They give me ten years, if I’m lucky. Two, if not.”

 

Will blinked. For a moment, they stood in silence, and then Jem reached for a throwing knife, examining it in his pale hands.

 

“You’re not… really dying, are you?” asked Will, finally. His tone was dramatically different.

 

“I am,” said Jem again.

 

“...I’m sorry.”

 

It was the first time Charlotte had ever heard Will apologize to anyone. Jem didn’t seem impressed.

 

“Don’t be like that,” he said, though there was no bite in his voice. “Don’t be ordinary. Everyone says they’re sorry.” He held out the knife, hilt-first. “Say you’ll train with me instead.”

 

A hesitation. Feeling as if something very important was happening, Charlotte wondered if she should slip away, but she didn’t want to break the odd tension.

 

After a moment, Will reached out and put his hand over Jem’s. It was the first time she had ever seen him willingly touch another person.

 

“I’ll train with you,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

**1881**

  


Tessa looked at herself in the mirror of her bedroom and frowned.

 

It was a beautiful piece of clothing, she had to admit, but it was… gaudy. Though she supposed that, if there was any time to be gaudy, it was in one’s wedding dress.

 

The fabric was gold - Charlotte had told her that Nephilim always married in gold, as white was the color of mourning - and matched Chali’s feathers almost perfectly. He amused himself by finding places on her waist or shoulder or corset to blend in, nearly vanishing.

 

A mundane seamstress had made it, and Tessa had gone with Charlotte to pick it up that morning. The seamstress had prattled on about how the autumn was a good time for a wedding, an auspicious time, and wasn’t Tessa so very excited, and what wouldn’t she give to be young again and in love.

 

Tessa had wanted to shake her. _My fianc_ _é is marrying me to save me from being imprisoned again, and separated from him, as well as from his lover and mine. I love him, I love him so dearly, but he is dying, and no matter how joyful I am to be with him, I cannot forget that our circumstances forced this marriage. And, I think, neither can he._

 

She did not, of course, say any of this. She let Charlotte pay for the dress (promising herself that someday, she would repay her) and returned to the Institute to try it on.

 

“You look beautiful,” said Charlotte now, from where she sat in one of the chairs. Her head barely reached the top of it, small-framed as she was. Her belly, which was beginning to show a visible swell, didn’t detract from the effect, though Tessa knew that Charlotte was notably older than she was.

 

“Thank you,” murmured Tessa, and put her hand to her neck. She felt her angel pendant, ticking away, and below it the necklace Jem had given her.

 

He wore a similar jade pendant, but his had been gifted to him by Will, years before Tessa had known either of them.

 

Will.

 

Tessa had expected Will to be angry, once they returned from the Council meeting where Jem, scrambling for a solution, had told the Consul that they were to be married. He had always reacted to hurt the same way he reacted to fear - with cruelty. Not without good reason, but his sharp edges had hurt her many times before.

 

He wasn’t angry. It was worse than that.

 

Will was _lonely._

 

When they had finally had the chance to talk, it was late that night, all three of them squeezed into Jem’s bed again. Tessa had half-expected Will to be too preoccupied with the sudden arrival of his sister Cecily to do anything, but that was not a conversation to have at that moment. As it was, he had been distant, but calm. _We talked about this,_ he’d said. _Something like this would have had to have happened sooner or later._ Then he’d propped himself up on one elbow and half-smiled. _I fully expect you to give me more than my fair share of cake._

 

Issalinde, though, had approached Chali carefully, as though expecting a rebuff, and when she didn’t receive one, had let out a relieved sigh and refused to leave his side for the rest of the night. Tessa’s heart had ached, and she and Jem had slept with Will between them, arms wrapped tightly around him.

 

Tessa wanted to marry Jem more than she wanted most things in this world.

 

She did not, however, want to marry Jem _alone,_ and that was foremost in her thoughts whenever wedding plans were brought up.

 

Charlotte, she realized now, was watching her as if she could hear the thoughts swirling around in her head. Charlotte, after years of looking after orphaned Nephilim children, was not oblivious enough to others’ emotions to have failed to guess the truth.

 

But it wasn’t talked about. Jem and Will were _parabatai,_ and both men for that matter, and Tessa knew full well that proper young women were not meant to fall in love with more than one suitor.

 

So Charlotte didn’t ask about her thoughts, and Tessa didn’t share them, and there was a slow silence that filled the room until someone rapped on the door.

 

“Tessa?” Jem’s voice. Charlotte jumped to her feet.

 

“He can’t see you in your dress!”

 

“What? Why not?” Tessa blinked, only to find herself marched behind the wardrobe. Chali, both amused and bewildered, followed with a twittering laugh.

 

“Nephilim custom, just - stay there.” Charlotte opened the door, and Jem walked in, his face split with a brightly amused smile when he saw Tessa’s head sticking out from behind the wardrobe. Jem’s smile, as contagious as ever, coaxed out her own.

 

“I had no idea where you two had gone,” he said. “But you should know that Gabriel Lightwood’s downstairs, and it’s urgent.”

  


* * *

 

Cecily glared up at her brother, who was impersonally correcting her stance. He glared back.

 

“Write a letter,” she said into the silence of the training room.

 

“Your feet are crooked,” he replied.

 

With an annoyed sigh, Cecily fixed her foot position. Tiran looked at Issalinde with wide dark eyes, but she as well was unmoved.

 

Will was not much like the brother she remembered from eight years ago. He was a tall man, now, not a little boy, with a frightening look in his eyes (their mother’s eyes) and a permanent scowl on his lips.

 

Her mother had used to say, in the months after he left, that she didn’t know what they wanted with _Gwilym,_ her little one. That the Nephilim were a cruel people. That they would bleed all of the love out of him. Perhaps, thought Cecily bleakly, she had been right.

 

“I don’t understand why you won’t consider writing to them,” she said again, as she’d been saying at every opportunity for the past few months.

 

“I don’t understand why _you_ won’t consider going home.”

 

“It’s not so difficult! You’re just afraid!”

 

Issalinde’s tail bushed out, but Will only rolled his eyes. “Fine. I will write a letter to them if you agree to take it back yourself, and never return.”

 

“I will _not,”_ Cecily insisted, and considered stabbing him with the training sword. “And if you keep saying I must go back, I will - I will -”

 

The door opened. Jem stood silhouetted in the doorway, all silver hair and silver eyes and silvery daemon. “Have you been threatening each other all afternoon?” he asked, in his soft voice. There was amusement in it, but also something Cecily couldn’t read.

 

“He began it,” she said sullenly, though she knew there was no point. Jem treated her kindly - he treated _everyone_ kindly - but he would always side with Will. Quietly, unobtrusively, but absolutely unyielding, he put Will before everything else in the world.

 

(Well. Almost everything. He also stared at Tessa, his fiancée, as if she were responsible for everything beautiful in life. It would be endearing to watch, if Cecily cared for romance, which she didn’t.)

 

“I was going to chop her up and feed her to the ducks in Hyde Park,” said Will, who was smiling at Jem. “I could use your assistance.”

 

“Let’s delay your plans for sororicide,” said Jem. “Gabriel Lightwood is downstairs, and I have two words for you. Two of your favorite words, at least when you put them together.”

 

“Worthless upstart?” Offered Will. The two of them had vanished into their own world again, as if Cecily wasn’t even there. She resented this, and scooped Tiran up into her arms so they could double the glare leveled at her brother. “Utter simpleton?”

 

Jem shook his head with a grin. _“Demon pox.”_

 

* * *

 

Gabriel Lightwood leaned against the wall just inside the Institute doors, panting. His jacket was gone, his shirt and trousers smeared with red. His daemon, a black-winged kite, was shaking on his shoulder. Tessa could see the Lightwood family carriage through the open doors - he must have driven it himself.

 

“Gabriel,” Charlotte said, her voice soothing. “Gabriel, can you tell us what happened?”

 

He scrubbed at his face, but his hands were bloody. “Where’s my brother? I have to talk to my brother.”

 

“He’s on his way down. I sent Henry to fetch him. Are you hurt? Do you need an _iratze?”_ She sounded as gentle, as motherly, as if he were one of her charges, and not someone who had faced her down from behind his father’s chair. Raimond’s tail wagged slowly, as if encouraging him to speak.

 

Tessa wasn’t sure how sympathetic she was. Gabriel had conspired with his father to take the Institute from Charlotte, but he had also trained her to use a sword and throw a knife, and his brother Gideon cared about him still.

 

“That’s not all your blood, is it?” She asked, despite herself.

 

He looked at her with wide eyes. “No - it’s _theirs -”_

 

“Theirs?” Gideon Lightwood came down the stairs at a run. “Who are _they?_ What’s happened?” Behind him followed Jem and Will, and Henry, and Cecily at the rear. Gideon moved to his brother’s side, looking him over for injuries. “Are you hurt? Is Father?”

 

Gabriel swallowed. “Father,” he began, then broke off. “Father is a worm.”

 

Will spluttered out a laugh. “Well, I hoped you’d come around to our way of thinking, but this is an odd way of announcing it.”

 

Gideon glared at him in a perfunctory way before turning his head back to his brother. “What do you mean, Gabriel? What did he do?”

 

“You’re not listening to me.” He shook his head. “He’s a worm. A great bloody serpent-like thing. Since Mortmain stopped sending him medicine, he - he changed. Those sores on his hands, they spread all around. His neck, h- his _face -”_ He turned to Will. “It was the pox, wasn’t it? You know about it, don’t you?”

 

“Well, you don’t have to act as though I invented it,” said Will. “Just because I believed it existed. Honestly.”

 

“Is he dead?” asked Gideon, ignoring this. “Has it killed him?”

 

“Not killed, changed. He moved the whole household to Chiswick weeks ago. Then a few days ago he locked himself in his study, and wouldn’t come out, so this morning I went to the study to try to speak to him. The door had been torn off its hinges. There was this… _trail_ leading down to the gardens.” He shuddered. “He’s become a worm. That’s what I’m telling you.”

 

When there was silence, he went on. “I went down to the gardens. Found some of the servants. Some of them. Pieces, that is.” He gestured to the bloodstains on his clothes, swallowing hard. “I heard a - howling noise, and I saw it coming towards me. Some great blind worm like something out of a legend. I ran for the stables, got the carriage. It followed me, but not off the grounds. I think it’s afraid to be seen by the rest of the world.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have run. Maybe he can be reasoned with.”

 

“And maybe it would have bitten you in half,” said Will. “Transforming into a demon is the final stage of the pox.”

 

Charlotte whirled on him. “Will, why didn’t you _say_ so?”

 

“The books on demon pox are in the library,” said Will, rather defensively. Issalinde made an amused _mrrr_ sound. “I wasn’t preventing you from looking it up.”

 

“Yes, but if Benedict was going to transform into a _giant serpent,_ you think you’d have mentioned it,” said Charlotte. “As a matter of general interest.”

 

“First of all,” said Will, “I didn’t know he’d be a worm. He could have turned into any sort of demon. Second, it takes days to occur. I’d have thought even a certified idiot like Gabriel here would have taken note of it and told someone.”

 

“Told who?” asked Jem, reasonably.

 

“Us. The Clave. The postman. Anyone?”   


Gabriel looked irritated. His daemon had left his shoulder and was looking to Niranthia, Gideon’s sandy-colored dog daemon, for comfort or guidance. She nosed at the kite’s feathers protectively.

 

“I told you,” he said. “Father locked himself in his study for days.”

 

“And that wasn’t unusual?”

 

“You don’t know our father,” said Gideon flatly. He turned back to his brother and steered him away, speaking to him in an indiscernible tone. Gabriel nodded or shook his head at intervals.

 

Jem, standing next to Tessa, hooked his little finger through hers. It was a gesture they’d taken to over the past months, for comfort or affection, and it had gotten to the point where, sometimes, she found herself extending her hand automatically whenever he approached.

 

“Is that your wedding dress?” he asked.

 

She’d forgotten what she was wearing. But she was saved from having to answer by Bridget’s arrival with gear.

 

“We have to go,” said Gideon. “Gabriel and I, if no one else.”

 

Jem nodded. “We can go with you,” he said. “You did us a service.” He looked to Charlotte, but she was nodding, and that was all the permission anyone needed. With one more smile for Tessa, Jem went to draw battle runes on Will’s neck and arms.

 

“I will go too,” said Cecily, and Will’s head snapped up, ruining the rune. Jem made an exasperated noise and pulled a lock of his hair, which he ignored.

 

“Absolutely not,” said Will.

 

“I’m trained,” Cecily argued. “And Tessa is going.”

 

Tessa half-smiled. Will looked over to her with an expression that said he already knew he’d lost that particular battle, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

 

“You’re in your wedding dress,” he said.

 

“Yes,” said Tessa. “And now that you’ve all seen it, I can’t wear it to be married in. Apparently, it’s bad luck.”

 

Jem hid another smile as Charlotte laughed aloud. “Tessa, there is the point that no one could fight in that dress. I doubt even Will could fight in that dress.”

 

“Perhaps not,” said Will. “But I would make a radiant bride.”

 

“I’m not letting you two go without me,” said Tessa, calling on the tone she’d heard her aunt use as a child when no argument would be accepted.

 

None was. Will, Jem, Tessa, Henry, Gabriel, Gideon, and Cecily all comprised the party that left for the Lightwood manor in Chiswick.

 

Tessa was still wearing her wedding dress.

  
  



	2. Whether it was Noon at Night

 

The manor was beautiful, in an objective way, and even more so in the daylight. The last time Tessa had seen it, it had been night, and the house had been done up for a party that she and Will had infiltrated. 

 

Those were odd memories to dwell on. Thoughts of Jessamine, her brother, a faerie woman who had claimed to know her mother, lemonade, Magnus, and kissing Will on a balcony weren’t what she needed. Especially not when there was a battle to be fought. 

 

There was a carriage already drawn up by the stairs when they arrived. Gabriel went pale. 

 

“Tatiana,” he said. “She must have decided to pay a call. Of all the times…” 

 

Tatiana. Of course. Gabriel and Gideon’s sister, recently married. Tessa had never met her, and knew very little of her as it was. 

 

Her carriage stood empty, which was neither promising nor reassuring. Gideon looked to Henry after a worried pause.

 

“We should split up,” he said. “Go from the east and the west, meet at the back of the gardens. Someone should search inside the house, as well.” 

 

Henry nodded, and Will, Jem, Tessa, and Cecily took to the west. Even Will had stopped insisting that Cecily return to the carriage, and was quietly scanning the gardens for any sign of movement. 

 

For all of his alertness, though, Cecily saw the figure first. “What’s that?” There was a blurry shape on the horizon, running from between the hedges. 

 

Before anyone could answer, it resolved itself into a woman, shrilly weeping, her dress in tatters. While it might once have been elegant, now it was torn and stained with blood. Without a word, she flung herself into Will’s arms. 

 

He caught her, looking disconcerted. “Tatiana? Tatiana, calm down -” 

 

The woman pulled slightly away from Will, her face streaked with tears. She resembled Gideon, slightly, with long brown hair trailing loose around her face. Her daemon was a dragonfly, buzzing around her head. “A creature,” she gasped out. “It pulled him from the carriage - dragged him -” 

 

“Where?” 

 

“The Italian gardens,” she managed to say, around sobs. Without a word, Will was off at a run. Jem followed. After a moment, so did Cecily, Tessa, and even Tatiana, though she was far more hesitant, and the three of them lagged somewhat behind. 

 

No introductions were made. It hardly seemed the time. 

 

It was quiet, unnervingly so, save for Tatiana’s stricken whimpering. The air was crisp and pleasant, with the smell of leaves on the wind. Tessa kept one hand on the knife she had brought from the Institute, her skin prickling in an uncomfortable way - and then Tatiana screamed again. 

 

She was pointing at something on the ground, her hand shaking. At first, Tessa thought it was the boot of an unconscious figure, and that the rest of the body was hidden in the foliage - but then she realized that the flesh ended in a grisly mess halfway up the leg, and the rest of the body was nowhere to be seen. 

 

* * *

 

“A forty-foot worm,” said Will, quietly. “Think of the fish we could catch.” 

 

Jem sighed. “It’s not funny,” he said, though his mouth twitched. 

 

“It is a bit.” Will glanced around the upcoming corner. Nothing. “We’re chasing Benedict Lightwood through his gardens because he’s become a worm.” 

 

“A demonic worm,” said Jem. “A great serpent. Will that help your humor?” 

 

“There was a time when my inappropriately timed humor brought you some joy,” said Will. He let the silence drag on, just for the anticipation of it all, and Issalinde turned around to make eye contact with Jem before she spoke. 

 

“Oh how the worm has turned.” 

 

_ That _ got a loud laugh out of him, but it was interrupted by a piercing scream. They whirled around to look back from where they’d come, just in time to see Tatiana slump limply to the ground. Tessa caught her, trying to prop her upright, as Cecily pulled a blade from her belt, edging around what remained of Tatiana’s husband. 

 

Then the ground split. There was no shaking, no warning - the ground was merely there, and then it wasn’t. 

 

With a roar, the worm burst forth. 

 

It really was something out of legend. Enormous, with a circular mouth ringed with teeth and large black eyes. Its skin seemed unpleasantly wet, the grayish color of a corpse. 

 

Tatiana went limp in Tessa’s arms. Cursing, she lowered her to the ground as the worm began to writhe back and forth, trying to pull itself free of the earth. Cecily, a seraph blade in her hand, put herself between them, and the sight was so familiar that Will felt as if he’d been dropped into ice water. 

 

“Get out of the way!” He yelled, sprinting back to push her aside as the worm’s head descended, striking the earth where she’d been standing. Issalinde crashed into Tiran, knocking them back several feet. Tiran barked and bit Issalinde’s shoulder, which Will felt with some annoyance. 

 

“That was unnecessary!” Cecily was furious, her eyes flinty. 

 

“You’ll get yourself killed!” 

 

The worm struck out again, sending Will reeling back - but there was Jem, sword-cane extended. He cut a slash into the side of its neck, and demon blood - ichor - sprayed, burning the skin of those it encountered. Everyone jumped back, regrouping to where Tessa had hauled a fainting Tatiana to her feet. 

 

“Get her out of here,” panted Will. “She can’t fight, that thing will kill her.” 

 

Tessa made no argument, though he knew she’d be back. Without a word, she looped Tatiana’s arm over her shoulders and half-dragged her down the path. 

 

“That’s his daughter,” said Cecily. “If it, if he, has any feeling left -” 

 

“It just devoured its son-in-law,” Will snapped. 

 

They didn’t have time to argue that point. The hedge in front of Will shook, and without any further warning, he found himself staring into the beast’s mouth, open wide. Jagged teeth and red flesh, all the way down. 

 

Cecily threw a knife, which stuck into its side, and that served as enough of a distraction for Will to duck out of the way and slip the seraph blade he carried between two of its teeth - and then keep slicing downwards, carving a bloody line that veered out from the circle of its mouth. It roared in pain, lashing out with its tail - and caught Will’s feet, tangling around them. 

 

He fell for a moment, landing flat on his back on the ground as the creature dragged him along - and then an arrow whistled through the air, thudding into its tail and making its grip loosen. Winded, he tried to stand, only to feel Jem’s arms pulling him up. He shot him a grateful look, gasping. 

 

Gideon and Gabriel were sprinting along the path towards them, Gabriel with a bow in his hand. Quila was flying overhead, calling targets to him, and Will was struck suddenly with the realization that Gabriel Lightwood had shot his own father to save Will’s life. 

 

He didn’t pause to dwell on it. The worm was retreating, injured, behind a small pavilion, and the five of them charged after it without hesitation. 

 

It turned, hissing grotesquely, but hovered for a moment, looking down at Gabriel and Gideon. Did it recognize them? Perhaps Will had been wrong, perhaps there was a mind in there somewhere. Unwilling to attack, it froze - and then Cecily leapt. 

 

She landed on its back, a tiny dagger in her hands. Again and again, she drove the blade into its skin, doing what seemed to be no damage whatsoever. 

 

_ “What are you doing?”  _ Will yelled, panicked. Cecily took no notice, but the worm did. With a roar, it turned its head, jaws gaping, and snapped down towards her with an inexorable speed. Yet in another second, she had rolled away, and the thing sunk its teeth deeply into its own flesh. 

 

Ichor sprayed, and the worm screamed, trying to loosen its grip. Without pausing, Gabriel fired another shot, directly into its eye.

 

There was a thrashing, a shaking. And then there was a stillness. 

 

What remained of Benedict Lightwood lay dead upon the ground. Gabriel’s bow fell from his hands. In the middle of it all, Cecily sat on the ground, her wrist twisted at an odd angle. 

 

Will started towards her, only to stop short as Jem caught his arm. He whirled on him, startled.

 

“My sister -” 

 

“You’re covered in demon blood, and it’s burning you,” said Jem, laying a cool hand on his wrist. “I need to heal you before it can’t be undone.” 

 

He was right, damn him. Will could feel it now, the uncomfortable, acid-like feeling on his face and arms, like his skin was being pulled too tight. He nodded, quickly marking Jem with an  _ iratze _ as Jem did the same to him, and then he ran to Cecily. 

 

Gideon and Gabriel were already there, leaning over her worriedly. He kicked Gabriel in the shin, not in any mood to be charitable. “Get away from my family.” 

 

Gabriel looked too shell-shocked to be insulted as Will pushed him aside. Cecily, save for a broken wrist that Tiran was nuzzling at, was unharmed, if bruised. 

 

“Are you all right,  _ cariad?”  _ He asked. An old Welsh nickname he’d forgotten. Cecily didn’t miss it, her eyes flashing. 

 

“I’m quite all right,” she said, but she didn’t argue when Will put another healing rune on her, holding her wrist in place until it had time to work. He wasn’t sure if he should be angry or impressed, and it made his words clipped. 

 

“You did well,” he said, offering no more than that. Her satisfied expression, nonetheless, returned in force. 

 

“So I shouldn’t have stayed at home, you say?” 

 

“That was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen someone do,” said Gabriel, when Will didn’t answer her. His tone was still flat with shock, but he seemed sincere. Cecily offered a smile. 

 

“I was only-” 

 

Will didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Jem, behind them, had been quiet - and then he coughed, the rough cough that Will dreaded. He whirled around, only to see Jem sink to his knees, then collapse to his side on the ground, Kasimela’s eyes heavily lidded and full of fear. 

 

* * *

 

Tessa stumbled to a halt, laying the unconscious Tatiana down against the side of her abandoned carriage. Chali, having carried the dragonfly daemon with his feet, set it down gently beside her. 

 

Tessa kicked off her shoes, intending to run back to Will, Jem, and Cecily, only to hesitate as a loud crash sounded from inside the manor. 

 

Henry was searching it himself. The worm was obviously in the gardens, but this was Benedict’s house, full of demons and automatons and who-knew-what. She hesitated once more - but she’d seen them all fight. Henry, while skilled, was alone, and needed more assistance. 

 

Leaving the shoes behind, she opened the doors to the manor, scanning the entrance. The Dark Sisters’ sigil was still painted on the far set of doors, but it was otherwise empty. 

 

“Henry? Henry, where are you?”    
  


There was an answering shout from upstairs, and another crash. Tessa sprinted up the stairs, turning to the side and entering the study. It was very dark, the curtains pulled over the windows, and the walls looked oddly mottled. On the rug, Henry was wrestling with a thing with an unnerving number of arms and a wolflike snout as Aisling screeched, throwing things to try to distract it. 

 

The knife she’d brought was too short to be of use. Tessa seized up a fire poker from the empty fireplace and rammed it into the demon’s side.  _ Something  _ crunched as it went in, causing a spurt of ichor to flow and the demon to fold in on itself and lay still. She stumbled back onto the desk, wiping some of its thick blood off of her face. 

 

Henry got to his feet and extended a hand to help her up, smiling in his rueful Henry way and nursing a badly cut shoulder. “Are you all right? We certainly do make a pair.” 

 

Tessa noticed that the blood was sizzling its way through the top layer of her dress. Interestingly enough, it didn’t hurt her skin - but then, she had it on fairly good authority that her father had been a demon. Either way, her wedding gown was ruined. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that, and so just shrugged. 

 

“I’m all right, Henry. Are you? It clawed you -” 

“Ah, no,” he said sheepishly, drawing an  _ iratze _ . “Fell on my knife. Don’t tell Charlotte.” 

 

Tessa had to smile. Then, remembering, she ran to the windows, opening the curtains and trying to see down into the gardens. They were on the wrong side of the house, though, and she groaned in frustration. 

 

“I have to go. They’re fighting it -” 

 

“Tessa,” said Henry, interrupting her. There was something in his voice, though, that had her whirling around. 

 

What she had thought were mottled stains were far more purposeful. In the newly-lit room, she saw that they were letters, some almost a foot tall, scrawled in what looked like dried black blood.

 

The words covered the entire opposite wall. 

 

**THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT PITY.**

**THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT REGRET.**

**THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT NUMBER.**

**THE INFERNAL DEVICES WILL NEVER STOP COMING.**

 

There was another sentence, at the end, barely readable, as if whoever had written it had lost the use of his hands. Tessa could imagine Benedict, locked in this room, smearing the words onto the wall in his own ichor-filled blood, Aethelina curled around him, fading away as he transformed. 

 

**MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON OUR SOULS.**

  
  


* * *

 

Tessa and Henry had heard the dying scream of the worm not long after. And then Gabriel had run up the stairs, gasping out words. Words that Tessa still heard sometimes in nightmares, nightmares she couldn’t shake off without crawling into Jem’s bed to see for herself that he lived. 

 

She had not heard them in a long time, but she always half-expected them. 

 

“Jem,” “Collapsed,” “Breathing,” “Blood,” “Will,” “Will is with him,” “Will-” 

 

Tessa did not stop to speak to Gabriel, to tell him about Benedict’s last words. She ran, down the path and to where Will had carried Jem to the carriages. He was conscious, but leaning heavily on Will, unable to support his own weight. 

 

Mela lay at his side, alarmingly still, and Chali flew to her without a sound. 

 

There were people gathered around. The Lightwoods, and Henry standing as if he wanted to comfort but was unsure how, but Tessa refused to think of them as she ran to Jem’s side.

 

Will looked up as she came closer, and his hand tightened on Jem’s sleeve. 

 

“She’s here,” he said, quiet, and Jem’s eyes opened. 

 

Tessa froze. During his bad spells, Jem’s eyes turned almost completely white and silver, the pupil a tiny speck of contrast against them. Now, however, the pupils were dilating so far that his entire eye looked black, then contracting again, then opening, then contracting. He half-smiled, and winced. 

 

“你受傷了嗎，心愛?” He asked. He didn’t seem to realize that he was speaking Mandarin. But he’d been teaching Tessa, at her insistence, and she understood ‘心愛’, at least.  _ My love, beloved.  _ One of Jem’s fond names for her and Will. She reached for his hand, and held it tightly. 

 

“Jem…” 

 

“Are you hurt, love?” Asked Will. Translating, but asking for himself. Tessa wanted to reach for his hand as well, but their audience lurked in the back of her mind. 

 

“I am not,” she said, brushing the blood that had run down Jem’s chin and throat away with her hand, as gently as she could. Mela sighed. “James, didn’t you take any? Before the battle?” 

 

“I took more than enough,” he said, his mouth twisting, and the implications of that were enough to constrict around Tessa’s heart. 

 

“We’re getting you back to the Institute,” said Will. “I’ll drive the carriage.” His voice was bleak, for all that he tried not to show it. With gentle hands, the two of them helped Jem into the carriage, lying down across the seat. Tessa sat beside him, one hand in his hair, and, while Will was hidden from the others, he cupped his hand over Jem’s face. 

 

Then he was gone, calling to the horses, and there was a babble of voices and plans to take Benedict’s record books from the house, and Henry fielding questions from the Lightwoods, and the wheels rattled as they left the grounds. 

 

Mela moved to Tessa’s side, eyes still dangerously half-lidded, and pushed her face into her free hand in a quiet plea. Jem shivered at the touch, but smiled, and she continued stroking his hair, feeling how warm he was with fever. 

 

But then he reached up, moving her hand and interlacing their fingers. “Tessa,” he said, “It is only a passing attack. It will not last. Do not worry for me.” 

 

“I love you,” she said, her other hand still resting on Mela. Hoping, somehow, that by holding his soul, she would give him strength. “I will worry for you all I please.” 

 

He laughed, but it sounded pained, catching in his chest. “我明天會和你結婚.” 

 

Tessa drew her brows together. “You… you want to get married? We’re already engaged. I don’t think we can get married twice.” 

 

He wanted to laugh again, she could feel it - but it came out as a sharp cough. Mela laughed for him, even as Jem tried to wipe the new spray of blood from his face. 

 

“He said that he would marry you tomorrow, if he could,” she said, her low voice slightly weak. 

 

“Tomorrow is not convenient for me, sir,” said Tessa, pretending to toss her head to hide the thickness in her throat. 

 

“But you are already appropriately attired,” said Jem, having found his voice, and they both chuckled. It was a moment before he spoke again. “Mela used to speak for me,” he said. “When I first arrived in London. I was too afraid to speak a word.” 

 

Curious, Tessa inclined her head. “Afraid?” 

 

He nodded. “I expected to be discarded as a child of no use, a foreigner who would die soon. I did not want to say anything that would speed up that outcome.” A smile. “I did not expect to find a family.” 

 

Tessa didn’t need to ask who it was Jem had first spoken to. She reached down to press one of his cold hands between hers. 

 

“Were you afraid to tell me you’d marry me?” She asked, curiosity needling at her. Jem half-smiled. 

 

“There is nothing I could be afraid to tell you,” he said, eyes drifting closed. Tessa’s heart felt warm, and she gently set his hand back down. 

 

“There will be another time,” she said. “Another day, another dress. A time when you are well and everything is perfect.” 

 

His voice was still gentle, but there was a terrible weariness in it now. “There’s no such thing as perfect, Tessa.” 

 


	3. I Had Not Power to Tell

 

Gabriel Lightwood wasn’t sure why he was standing in the Institute’s drawing room, except that his brother had told him to be there, and even after everything that had happened, he was still inclined to do as his older brother said. 

 

He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. Gear torn at the neck, a red mark on his jaw where a cut was in the process of healing. There was blood all over him, but whether his own or his father’s, he wasn’t sure. 

 

It wasn’t a thought he wanted to dwell on. He was almost grateful for the interruption when the door swung open and Charlotte Branwell entered. She wore a loose dress, her eyes bright, and inclined her head to him.

 

“Gabriel,” she said. “Your brother says you aren’t hurt?” 

 

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, and then regretted it. It was hard to put aside his father’s endless drilling that Charlotte was a fool, useless and easily influenced. He knew Gideon disagreed, disagreed enough to come and live in this place and leave his family, but the lessons of years weren’t easy to ignore. “I thought you’d be with Carstairs.” 

 

“The Brothers are here. They’ve banned us from his room. Will and Tessa are beside themselves, poor things.” She looked at Gabriel briefly, appraisingly, as she spoke. “But enough of that. I understand your sister has already been delivered to the Blackthorns’ address. Is there someone you would like me to send a message to for you?” 

 

“A message?” Quila, who had been resting on his shoulder in a contained way, ruffled her feathers. The little dog daemon of Charlotte’s didn’t react to her at all. 

 

“You need somewhere to stay, do you not?” 

 

He hadn’t considered this. “I - the house in Pimlico -” 

 

“The Consul will find out what happened,” said Charlotte. “Your family’s residences will be confiscated in the name of the Clave, at least until they can be searched for any clues as to Mortmain’s plans. If you have an address, I can -” 

 

“I haven’t  _ got  _ one,” said Gabriel, in some desperation. “Where do you think I could go?” 

 

She raised one eyebrow. 

 

“I want to stay with my brother,” he said, aware that he sounded petulant and childish. His father would have disciplined him for it. But his father was dead, and Gabriel had killed him. 

 

“But your brother lives here,” she said. “And you have made your feelings about the Institute, and my claim to it, very clear.” 

 

“The Institute is a refuge.” 

 

“Was that your father’s plan for it?” 

 

“I don’t know! I don’t know what his plans are, what they were -” 

 

“Then why did you go along with them?” Her voice was soft, and absolutely merciless. 

 

“Because he was my  _ father!”  _ He was shouting. Without knowing why, he turned, wrapping his arms around himself. Quila huffed, then gave a shrill call. He remembered the past few weeks in unpleasant detail - screams in the night, noises from upstairs, and blood on the floors in the morning. Father shouting gibberish from behind his study door. 

 

Gabriel turned back, squared his jaw, and lifted his head. “If you are going to throw me out on the street,” he said, “then do it now. I do not want to think I’ve got a home when I do not. I don’t want to think I’m going to see my brother again if I won’t.” 

 

“You don’t think he’d go after you?” 

 

“I think he’s proven who he cares for most, and it is not me.” On his shoulder, Quila gave the piercing look she was best at. “Send me away or let me stay. I will not beg you.” 

 

Charlotte sighed. Her hand found her daemon’s head, and she seemed to steady herself. “You will not have to,” she said. “Never before have I sent away anyone who said they had nowhere else to go, and I don’t intend to start now. I only ask of you something. To allow you to stay here is to place my trust in your good intentions.” She met his eyes with a piercing look of her own. “Do not make me regret it, Gabriel Lightwood.” 

 

* * *

 

The shadows in the library were long. 

 

Tessa, settled on the window seat, started chapter five of the book on her lap for the third time. She couldn’t focus on a single word. Chali, in the form of a tabby cat, had curled beside her in an attempt to soothe her nerves, which remained steadfastly un-soothed. 

 

It had been hours, now. Hours of waiting for news, waiting to hear that this was the time Jem wouldn’t pull through. Her eyes seemed to skid over the marks on the page without absorbing any meaning, and she finally put it aside with a thud.

 

Will, sitting on the floor nearby, jerked his head up and looked at her sympathetically. After a moment, he got up and sat beside her on the window seat.

 

She took his hand, feeling the warm metal of his family ring, and wiped at her eyes. It was past the time where he would judge her tears, she knew, but she felt ashamed of them nonetheless. 

 

“Benedict wrote on the wall of his study,” she said, once her voice was clearer. “Before he turned into that creature, or while it was happening. ‘The Infernal Devices are without pity. The Infernal Devices are without regret. The Infernal Devices are without number. The Infernal Devices will never stop coming.’” 

 

“Mortmain’s clockwork creatures?” suggested Will. His voice was a little hoarse from the hours of silence. “We haven’t seen any of those in months. Not since they broke into the Council meeting.” 

 

“It doesn’t mean they won’t come back.” Tessa looked at their intertwined fingers, the old rune scars on Will’s hand. “I am a danger to you here.” 

 

“We’ve talked about this before,” he said. “You are what Mortmain wants, yes, but you aren’t the danger. If you weren’t here, relatively protected, who knows what he’d do with your powers? The Nephilim aren’t selfless.” 

 

It was far from what Jem or Charlotte would have said to comfort her. But it was, she thought, what she needed. She nodded, with a grateful smile, and looked up. “I think you are very selfless. Not the Clave, perhaps, they are cold, but what you do? You’re like the heroes of ancient times. Achilles and Jason.” 

 

“Achilles was murdered with a poisoned arrow, and Jason died alone, killed by his own rotting ship. Such is the fate of heroes.” A hint of Will’s old, cursed bitterness shone through. It was hard for him, she knew, to lose a persona that had kept him sane for so long. Still, she enjoyed knowing that his flashes of cold anger were becoming fewer and farther between. “The Angel only knows why anyone would want to be one.” 

 

Tessa leaned up, kissed his forehead to see the lines smooth out. They didn’t, but she hadn’t expected them to. 

 

“You know that feeling,” she said, “when you are reading some book, and you know it is going to be a tragedy? You can feel the darkness in it coming, but you’re tied to the story as if you’re being dragged along behind a carriage.” He nodded. Of course Will would understand. “I feel the same thing happening, Will. But not to some characters on a page. To us, to this. I don’t want to sit idly by while tragedy comes for us.” 

 

Will pulled her into a close embrace, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, leaned her head on his shoulder. “You fear for Jem.” 

 

“I fear for Jem. I fear for myself. I fear for you.” 

 

Issalinde lifted her head, stared at Tessa from behind Will’s shoulder. “No,” said Will, a little hoarsely. “Don’t waste that on me, Tess.” 

 

Before she could answer, the library door creaked open. They jumped apart, only to realize that it was Charlotte. She looked drained and exhausted, and they both turned to her immediately. 

 

“What did they say?” 

 

Charlotte sighed. “He is awake,” she said. “The Brothers have made his condition stable, and stopped most of the internal bleeding. He can have a visitor, but they’ve limited him to one - he’s asked for you, Will.” 

 

Tessa had known that before Charlotte had finished her sentence. She and Jem had had time to speak in the carriage - he would ask for Will, now, to reassure him, because even ill, Jem thought of the feelings of those he loved before his own. 

 

She wondered briefly if she was going to cry again, but the feeling passed, and Chali jumped to her shoulder, becoming a goldfinch in midair. 

 

“To understand them,” he said in her ear. It had been all she wanted, those months ago. 

 

But this was now, and so she smiled at Will and squeezed his hand. There was nothing she needed to say to tell him to pass along to Jem, and she was almost surprised when he spoke. 

 

“While I’m with him - will you do something for me?” 

 

“Of course,” she said, confused. “What is it?” 

 

“Go to Cecily,” he said. “She’s… unhappy, I think. Can you talk to her? Just a bit, if you can -” 

 

Tessa half-smiled. It was endearing to see Will navigate this recently-appeared sister. So, as he left with Charlotte, she made her way to Cecily’s room, in the hall adjacent, and knocked. 

 

Cecily was still in her muddy, ichor-stained gear. She opened the door, raised an eyebrow at Tessa, and jerked her head to indicate that she should come in. 

 

Inside, it was more or less the same bedroom that Tessa had, that Jem had, that Will had. Each spare room was meant to be identically furnished, to house visiting Nephilim, and only after an inhabitant took up the room would personal touches be added, the amount of which depending on how long the room’s owner had been there. 

 

Cecily’s room was unadorned, only containing the double four-poster bed, the two chairs and their low table, the cedar chest, the wardrobe, and the fireplace. She had left a letter on the table, but its words were viciously crossed out. Her black fox daemon, Tiran, lay on their side on the bed. 

 

“I came to see if you were all right,” Tessa said, a little awkwardly. She and Cecily did get along well, but they were not close friends. “If you needed anything.” 

 

“Oh.” Cecily shrugged. “I’m fine, thank you.” 

 

“You’re still in your gear.” 

 

She nodded. “I was going to train.” 

 

_ “Now?”  _ Tessa knew her incredulity showed in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. “You were just in battle, it takes more than one rune sometimes to fully heal. I can’t draw them, but you should at least let Charlotte give you another, or Will -” 

 

“If either of them cared, they would be here already,” muttered Cecily, sitting down on the bed and glaring out from under her hair.

 

Ah. So that was the problem. Tessa forgot, sometimes, that Cecily really was fairly young. Not a child, no, but… young. She sat down beside her, not making eye contact, as if approaching a spooked animal. 

 

“You know,” she said. “Will was the one who sent me to check on you. He’s with Jem, but he does want to make sure you’re all right.” 

 

Cecily shrugged, but didn’t argue. 

 

“When he was cursed -” 

 

“It wasn’t a real curse.” 

 

“In its way,” said Tessa, playing with her angel pendant, “it was. He believed that he left you to keep you safe. And now here you are, in his eyes as far from  _ safe  _ as you can get. The habits of years aren’t unlearned so quickly - he knows that his presence didn’t injure you, but he can’t make himself acknowledge it.” 

 

When Cecily still seemed to be listening, she went on, “If he isolates himself, it’s out of some very misplaced desire to protect you. I know, it doesn’t make it any better. But don’t make the mistake of believing he doesn’t love you just because he plays at not caring.” 

 

Cecily sniffled a bit, still failing to make eye contact, but she murmured, “I suppose.” 

 

“If it makes you feel better, and you’re prepared for whatever nonsense he’ll spout, you can ask him for the truth yourself. But don’t cast him from your heart. I promise you’ll regret it.” 

 

* * *

 

Jem was sitting on the edge of his bed when Will arrived, dressed in a clean shirt and loose trousers that made him look even thinner than usual. There were still flecks of dried blood around his neck and collarbones - a brutal necklace. Issalinde went to Mela’s side immediately, wrapping around her and nuzzling against the side of her head. 

 

“I thought you’d make a song about it,” said Jem, with half a smile. 

 

“About what?” Will sat next to him, trying to appraise his state without being obvious about it. A bowl of pink-stained rags was set next to the bed.

 

“Our defeat of the worm.” 

 

Will snorted. “Oh, that. How’s this? 

 

_ Forsooth, I no longer toil in vain _

_ To prove that demon pox warps the brain _

_ So now it seems ‘twas not in vain  _

_ That the pox-ridden worm was slain  _

_ For to believe in me you all must deign.”  _

 

Jem started to laugh. “Well, that was awful.” 

 

“It was impromptu!” Despite himself, Will began to smile. 

 

“Will, there is such a thing as  _ scansion -”  _ but before he could finish the sentence, he was coughing again, doubled over, blood spattering the blanket. The smile slipping from his face, Will reached out to steady him, feeling the tremors running through Jem’s chest and arms. Once the coughing fit had ended, Will got to his feet, reaching for the silver box with its damned silver powder. 

 

He opened it and froze. 

 

“James,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, “how is this all there is?” 

 

There was a light dusting of silver powder covering the bottom of the box. Perhaps there had been more before the Silent Brothers treated him. Perhaps not. 

 

Jem looked away. He wiped his mouth, and his sleeve came away scarlet. “I have… accelerated the process of taking it.” 

 

“By how much?” 

 

Silence. 

  
“James.” 

 

“Two, perhaps three times as much.” 

 

Will shoved the box back onto the mantel. Roughly, but it was that or punch the wall. Shout, or break the window, or reach out and shake Jem and hold him close. His voice rose, broke on a single word.  _ “Why?”  _

 

Jem’s eyes were still bright from fever, though his pupils at least had returned to normal size. Mela’s were still half-lidded. 

 

“I do not wish to live half a life,” he said. 

 

“At this rate you won’t even live a fifth of one!” Will was shouting. He shouldn’t be shouting. 

 

“There’s more to living than  _ not dying,”  _ insisted Jem, sitting up straighter. “Look at the way you live, Will. Burning brightly. I was taking enough to keep me alive, but not enough to keep me well. A little more before battles. I wanted to feel alive, but… now it is taking more merely to keep me moving.” 

 

So now he was taking more. More to give him strength, and to make his body give out that much sooner. 

 

“Why?” Will said again. “Has this been since the Council meeting? Is this because of your engagement?” 

 

“Tessa doesn’t know about this. You cannot blame her.” 

 

“She wants you to live, James,  _ I  _ want you to live -” 

 

_ “I am not going to live!”  _ Jem was on his feet, now, though still unsteady, and his eyes were full of tears. “I am not going to live, William. That has never been a question. I can choose to have the strength now, to burn brightly for her and for you, than to burden you all with someone half-alive for a longer time. It is my choice, and you cannot make it for me-” 

 

“I can refuse to buy you the  _ yin fen,”  _ Will snapped. Jem reeled backwards, then set his jaw. 

 

“Then I will buy it myself. I have always been willing. And for that -” he pulled the Carstairs family ring from his finger, holding it out to Will in the palm of his hand. Will stared down at it, then looked back up to his too-bright eyes. 

 

“You wish to marry  _ me,  _ now?” he said, finally. Something in his chest twisted miserably at his own words. How had things ended up like this? 

 

“Sell it,” said Jem, his voice breaking. “For the money. Just sell it, sell it all - I told you, you shouldn’t have to pay for my drugs - I paid for yours, once, and I remember the feeling. It was unpleasant -” He swayed on his feet, and despite everything, Will darted forward to catch him. They both slid to the floor, Will holding Jem against him, chest to chest. 

 

Jem was weeping. Quiet sobs that racked his shoulders, so Will clutched him, protectively, and shook his head. 

 

“All right,” he whispered. “All right. It’s all right.” 

 

It wasn’t. 

 

Jem inhaled a shuddering breath that even sounded painful. “I do not have years, Will,” he said, his face buried in Will’s chest. “I might not even have months.” 

 

Will held him tighter. “Does she know?” 

 

Jem shook his head. 

 

“So you are dying for a few moments of life.” 

 

“Dying a little faster, that’s all.” His voice broke on tears. “There are worse things to die for, aren’t there?”  

  
Will picked up the ring from where it had fallen and placed it in Jem’s hand, closing his fingers around it. This required him letting go of Jem, which hurt, so he pulled him back in for another moment. 

 

“I’ll go to Whitechapel,” he said, into Jem’s hair. He still smelled of blood. 

 

“Will -” 

 

“I’ll buy you more. Everything there is. All you could need to keep you alive.” 

 

“I won’t ask you to do something that goes against your conscience.” 

 

“My conscience.” Will snorted. “You are my conscience, James Carstairs. You always have been. I’ll do this for you. But I want a promise from you first.” 

 

Jem half-stiffened. His tears were slowing. “What is it?” 

 

“You asked me, years ago, not to look for a cure for you. Release me from that promise. Let me search.” 

 

Jem shifted back, and looked up with some wonder. “Just when I think I know you perfectly,” he murmured, and leaned his forehead against Will’s. “Yes, I will free you. Search. Do what you must.” 

 

“I  _ will  _ find one,” he said. “It’s not some empty promise. But until then, your life is yours.” 

 

Jem smiled. “I know,” he said. “But it’s gracious of you to remind me.” 

 

“I am nothing if not gracious,” said Will, leaning in to kiss him. When he broke away, he added, “And also selfishly determined. You will  _ not  _ die. Not while Tess and I live.” 

 

Jem’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything as Will helped him to his feet and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice portion of angst for your days, anyone?


	4. Magicians be Asleep

 

Will walked quickly through the East End, not bothering to stop and take it all in. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before - butchers with their bloody aprons leaning in doorways, peddlers with knife-sharpening wagons calling in hoarse voices, women with weary, lined faces setting washing out. 

 

In fact, the only time he stopped was to slip abruptly into an alley and extend his hand to the side. There was a yell, and then he was hauling a slim, cloaked figure into the alley with him - Cecily. Of course. She wore a black cloak over her gear and was glaring at him. 

 

“What are you doing following me into Whitechapel, you little idiot?” 

 

She huffed. “This morning it was  _ cariad.  _ Now I’m an idiot? And what are you doing  _ going  _ to Whitechapel? Gabriel told me he saw you leaving, and I was worried for your safety.” 

 

“First of all,” said Will, once he had digested this, “You never stopped being an idiot. Second, don’t listen to anything Gabriel Lightwood tells you, because he’s a snitch and a liar. These streets are dangerous, and you don’t even know them.  _ Fyddai’n wneud unrhyw dda yn ddweud wrthych i fynd adref?” Would it do any good to tell you to go back?  _

 

_ “No,”  _ she replied, also in Welsh. It reminded him of home, which was unpleasant.  _ “It wouldn’t. You are my brother and I want to go with you.”  _

 

Will rolled his eyes, knowing there was no way he’d be able to get out of this quickly, and Issalinde went without a word to keep watch. Perhaps then no one would grow suspicious of two cloaked people arguing in an alley in an incomprehensible language.  _ “Do you even care where I’m going? I could be on my way to Hell.”  _

 

_ “I’ve always wanted to see Hell. Doesn’t everyone?”  _

 

“Most of us spend our days trying to stay out of it.” That was in English, for the extra punch, but Cecily didn’t even blink.  _ “I am going to an ifrit den, to purchase drugs from violent, dissolute criminals. They will look at you and decide to sell you.”  _

 

_ “You would stop them.”  _

 

_ “Depends on how much they offered me.”  _

 

Cecily sighed, and Tiran jumped to her arms. She held them close, hesitating, before speaking in English again. “Jem is your  _ parabatai.  _ But I’m your sister by blood. Why would you do anything in the world for him, but you only want to send me home?” 

 

“Who said the drugs are for Jem?” 

 

“I’m not a fool, Will.” 

 

“Yes, more’s the pity,” he muttered. “Jem… Jem is - all the better part of myself. You don’t understand. I owe him this.” 

 

“Then what am I?” She tilted her head, and Tiran did the same. It made the both of them look very young indeed. 

 

Will was too exasperated to think of anything but the truth. “You are one of my weaknesses.” 

 

“And Tessa is your heart,” she said, thoughtfully. Will put a hand to his forehead and groaned. “I’m not a fool, as I told you. I’ve seen you look at each other.” 

 

Will didn’t deign to answer this. He didn’t exactly have an answer, either. “I can’t stand here arguing with you all night, Cecy. Either go back to the Institute or follow me into Hell.” Without another word, he strode out of the alley. 

 

Cecily followed him, a self-satisfied expression on her face. “I knew you’d come around eventually.” 

 

* * *

 

The door to Gideon’s room opened, and he stood blinking on the threshold, somewhat disheveled. He looked endearingly as if he’d just awoken. 

 

Sophie sighed at herself, and held out the tray of scones she carried. “Mr. Lightwood? Bridget said you’d rung for a tray.” 

 

“Yes. Of course, yes. Please, come in -” He ushered her inside. The room lacked its usual neatness - gear was thrown over a chair, boots were piled in the corner. Niranthia lay on the cedar chest, defensively watching over a limp form on the bed. 

 

Said form was Gabriel Lightwood, fast asleep. He was wearing ill-fitting clothes - probably his brother’s - and clutching at the pillows. He seemed restless, as if even in sleep, he expected danger.

  
“I couldn’t wake him,” said Gideon, shrugging somewhat sheepishly. “He has his own room, but I couldn’t bring myself.” 

 

“Is he staying?” Sophie asked, setting the scone tray down on the table. “At the Institute, that is.” 

 

“I - don’t know. I think so. Charlotte told him he could stay, and I think that frightened him.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

Gideon paused, giving the question thought. “Gabriel,” he said finally, “is not accustomed to leniency. He understands strict discipline. He likely thought Charlotte was mocking him, or that she was mad.” 

 

Sophie bristled slightly, as she always did when anyone could think less than the world of Charlotte Branwell, but let it be. “What about your sister?” 

 

“Tatiana wouldn’t stay here for a moment longer than she had to. She’s fled to her in-laws, and good riddance.” He shrugged. “She’s not a stupid girl - in fact, I’d say she’s quite clever - but she’s self-important and vain, and there’s no love lost between us.” Despite the casual words, his voice was sad. 

 

Sophie paused. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said. “Whatever he might have done, he was still your father.” 

 

Gideon looked up in surprise, but didn’t comment. 

 

“I know that he did deplorable things. But you should be allowed to mourn him either way.” 

 

He smiled, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it. “You know, I heard the name Sophie means wisdom. You’re well-named.”  

 

He looked so sad that for a moment Sophie forgot that she was steadfastly ignoring him, because she was far below him in class and because of a million other reasons. She reached out to touch his cheek, and when he leaned in to kiss her, she didn’t pull away. 

 

Then Belden nipped at her wrist, a sharp reminder, and she startled and slipped on the rug. She was unbalanced for a moment, and then they both went over, and dear god, he was going to think she pulled him down to the floor in some fit of wanton passion, wasn’t he? She would never regain dignity - 

 

Sophie could tell her face was bright red. Gideon leaned over her, worried, and she turned her head to the side on impulse to hide her scarred cheek. 

 

Then she froze. 

 

“Mr. Lightwood,” she said, raising herself up on one elbow. “Are there  _ scones  _ under your bed?” 

 

Gideon blinked like a cornered rabbit. “I - er -” 

 

“There is a veritable mountain of scones under your bed, Mr. Lightwood.” Perplexed, Sophie sat up, and Gideon sat back, running his hand through his hair. “You  _ called  _ for those scones, every day. Why would you do that if you didn’t even want them?” 

 

“It was the only way I could see you,” he said, looking unsure whether to be defensive or abashed. “You wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t answer if I talked to you -” 

 

“So you  _ lied?”  _ Embarrassment giving way to anger, Sophie got to her feet. “Do you have any idea how much work I have to do, Mr. Lightwood? Carrying coal and hot water, dusting, polishing, cleaning up after you and the others - and I don’t mind, but how dare you make extra work for me, and for Bridget, cooking and dragging trays up and down the stairs every day, just to bring you something you don’t even  _ want?”  _

 

“Forgive me,” said Gideon, scrambling to his feet. “I didn’t think -” 

 

“No,” said Sophie. “You lot never do, do you?” And with that, she turned and stormed from the room. 

 

Gabriel, on the bed, stirred, awoken by the argument. “Nicely done,” he said. 

 

Gideon threw a scone at him. 

 

* * *

 

Tessa lay awake, at Jem’s side. It was certainly in the small hours of the morning, and while she made a habit of creeping to Jem’s room with Will most nights, this time she was expected to be there, watching over his sickbed. 

 

That she had crawled into the bed with him and lay beside him under the coverlets, her hand in his, was not necessarily  _ expected _ , but she had decided it was acceptable anyway. Chalivan, not waiting to hear whether it was acceptable or not, had curled up on Mela’s back and was murmuring to her. 

 

Jem’s eyes were half-open, though he drifted in and out of sleep. At some point of awareness, he half-smiled and said, with some bitterness, “Not very heroic.” 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“Collapsing and coughing up blood all over the Lightwoods’ house.” 

 

“It only improved the look of the place.” 

 

“Now  _ you  _ sound like Will.” He was still very pale, his eyelids dark blue in the glow of the witchlight. “And you’re changing the subject.”

 

“Of course I am. As if I’d ever be angry with you for being ill.” Tessa shook her head. “He was talking about heroism before, you know. Saying they all meet bad ends, and he couldn’t see why anyone would want to be one.” 

 

Jem laughed. “He’s thinking of it from the hero’s perspective. For the rest of us, it’s an easy answer. Heroes endure because people need them to.” 

 

“You talk as if you aren’t one.” 

 

He just shook his head, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips were cool, the fever broken by the drug he’d already taken. Between them, Tessa’s clockwork angel ticked steadily, and Mela made a quiet chirring sound.  

 

They laid like that, quiet, until Jem’s breathing evened out and he finally did fall into a fitful sleep. 

 

Tessa wasn’t sure how much later it was that the door opened. Will stood there - no one else would be out of bed at this hour - but it wasn’t that which startled her. His face was bleak, stark with pain. He looked distraught. 

 

Suddenly wide awake, she slid out of bed and hurried to his side, following him into the corridor. He was already halfway down the stairs, as though the devil were at his heels - Tessa closed the bedroom door behind her and followed. 

 

“What is it? What’s happened?” 

 

“There’s no more,” said Will, reaching the landing. The library door stood open, casting a shadow into the dimly-lit hall. Issalinde’s eyes gleamed in the dark.  

 

“No more what?” 

 

“No more  _ yin fen.  _ None, none anywhere. I went to every dealer in every part of the city, I’ve been  _ everywhere. _ It’s just... gone.” 

 

“But - Jem has a supply -” 

 

“Not anymore.” His voice was harsh with barely-contained panic. “It’s almost gone. He didn’t want to tell us, but he needs more, needs to take more to stay alive, now. The last place I went, someone told me it had all been deliberately bought up in the past few weeks. There’s nothing.” 

 

Tessa felt as if she’d missed a step on the stairs, but instead of regaining her footing, she was still falling, that sick swooping feeling in her stomach continuing on and on and on. 

 

“Just this afternoon,” said Will. “Just this afternoon he told me I could look for a cure again, that he wouldn’t stop me. And now he will die because I can’t keep him alive for long enough to find it.” 

 

“No,” Tessa said. Her hand had found the angel pendant, but it brushed against the jade necklace beneath it. Chali fluttered around her, nervous. “He will  _ not  _ die. We won’t let him.” 

 

Will moved into the library, tossing a witchlight to Issalinde for illumination. “There were books,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “Books about rare poisons. It was years ago, before he said to stop any more research. I can’t remember - I have to find -” He ran his hands frantically over the edges of the bookshelves. 

 

“Will, stop.” 

 

He shook his head. “I have to find -” 

 

“You can’t read every book in the library in time,” she said, hating how calm she was, and how true her words were. “This won’t help him.” 

 

“Then what will?” He pulled a book from the shelf, looked at it, and tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a thud. “What  _ will?”  _

 

Tessa wanted to hold him tightly until he stopped fighting, until he remembered to breathe, to think. She couldn’t, she knew - not against the power of several strengthening runes - but perhaps - 

 

_ “Stop,”  _ said Chalivan, alighting on Will’s outstretched hand. Will froze, unable to move without pushing him aside. Tessa knew, deep within herself, that Will would never do that. And so Will froze, caught between a desperate need to save Jem and an equally important need not to hurt Tessa. 

 

There was a quiet stalemate, during which Will’s breathing began to slow. His posture relaxed, the fight going out of him bit by bit. 

 

She caught at his arm, Chali returning to her shoulder after a long, long look at Will’s eyes. “When you searched for the cure before,” she said, “you didn’t have half the allies you have now. We’ll go, we’ll ask Magnus Bane. He helped you with the curse, he can help you again.” 

 

“There was no curse,” Will said, as if on autopilot, but then he shook his head, as if emerging from water. “You’re right.” A deep breath. “You’re right, of course you’re right.” He nodded. “I’ll get the carriage, I’ll get Cyril to drive us.” 

 

Tessa looked at him, but the panicked energy had passed. With a nod, she kissed his cheek and went downstairs to the courtyard. 

 

This time, the carriage ride was nearly silent. They didn’t speak, only watched the night sky outside. Will, forced into calm, drummed his fingers against his leg, the seat, the window, as Issalinde paced. Tessa, the weight of the situation pressing on her, fought back tears. But Tessa knew that Charlotte, brave Charlotte, would not have cried until the task ahead was done - and so she didn’t, either. 

 

The carriage pulled up to a townhouse in the artist’s district. Tessa marched up to the door, Will at her heels, and knocked. 

 

Woolsey Scott, monocle in place, opened it. He wore a dressing gown over perfectly acceptable day clothes, despite the hour, and did not look pleased to see them. His wolf daemon - all werewolves, Tessa had noticed, had wolf daemons - growled quietly. 

 

“Bother,” he said. “I was hoping you were someone else.” 

 

“Who?” asked Tessa, before she could stop herself. Chali, not to be threatened, became a wolfdog, standing protectively in front of Issalinde. 

 

“Someone with absinthe.” 

 

“Drink enough of that stuff and you’ll think  _ you’re  _ someone else,” said Will flatly. “We’re looking for Magnus Bane. If he isn’t here, tell us, and we’ll go.” 

 

Woolsey sighed as if greatly inconvenienced by this turn of events. “Magnus,” he called down the hall. “It’s your blue-eyed boy again.” 

 

There were footsteps, and then Magnus appeared. He was in full evening dress - swallowtail black coat, starched cuffs, and hair like a cloud of black silk. Casimir, a dragon as was typical, peered at them from his shoulder. Both Casimir and Magnus looked from Will to Tessa with slitted yellow eyes. 

 

“To what do I owe the honor, at such an hour?” He said, after a moment. 

 

“A favor,” said Will, and when Magnus’ eyebrows shot up, quickly amended himself. “A question?” 

 

Woolsey snorted. “Come in, then.” 

 

They did so. Tessa followed them down a narrow hallway and into a brightly-lit drawing room, where a fire was roaring and candles lined the walls. The warmth was a relief after the cold dampness of the fall night, and she took off her gloves to warm her hands. She was willing to let Will do the talking - he, after all, had been here previously.

 

Woolsey flung himself into an armchair and removed his monocle, twirling the chain around one finger. “I simply cannot wait to hear what this is about,” he said. 

 

Magnus was standing by the fire, examining a few colorful rings on his fingers. “Why are you here, Will? You’ve been all but silent for months.” 

 

“This is important,” said Will. “I didn’t want to trouble you, but this is a crisis.” 

 

Magnus’ cat eyes widened. “Oh?” 

 

“It’s about the  _ yin fen.”  _

 

“Gracious,” said Woolsey from his chair. “You don’t mean to tell me that my pack’s been taking the stuff again?” 

 

“No,” said Will. “There’s none of it to take.” Tessa saw dawning comprehension on Magnus’ face as he went on to explain, though he didn’t interrupt Will at any point, only waiting until he finished. 

 

Once silence fell, he said, “And when the  _ yin fen  _ runs out, he will die?” 

 

Tessa nodded. “Not immediately. But soon, within the week. He has a little, but not enough to last more than a few days.” 

 

“How does he take it?” asked Woolsey. 

 

Will blinked at him. “Inhaled, or dissolved in water - what does that have to do with anything?” 

 

“Nothing,” said Woolsey. “Merely curious. Demon drugs are a curious thing.” 

 

Chali bristled, and Tessa bristled with him, forgetting her resolution to let Will handle most of it. “For us, who love him, it is a damn sight more than curious,” she snapped. Woolsey chuckled, but Magnus raised a hand as if to calm them both. 

 

“Why have you come to me with this?” he asked, quiet power in his voice. 

 

“You helped us before,” she said. “With De Quincey. And you helped Will with his curse -” 

 

“I am not at your beck and call,” said Magnus, still very calm. “I helped with De Quincey because of Camille, and Will because he offered me a favor in return, even if he does not remember. I do not serve Nephilim.” 

 

“I,” said Tessa, “Am not Nephilim.” 

 

The fire crackled, and Magnus laughed a bit. 

 

“I understand,” he said, after a silence, “That you are to be congratulated?” 

 

“I -” 

 

“On your engagement to James Carstairs.” 

 

“Oh.” Her hand went to her necklace. “Yes. Thank you.” As she spoke, she felt Woolsey’s eyes on her, and then Will. Deducing, examining,  _ enjoying.  _ Her skin crawled as Will spoke. 

 

“I would offer anything,” he said. “Money, another favor, whatever you ask.” 

 

Magnus glanced at him and sighed. “Think, both of you. If someone’s buying up all the supplies of  _ yin fen,  _ it’s someone with a reason. Who has a reason to do that?” 

 

Tessa already knew. “Mortmain,” she said. “Mortmain, putting pressure on the Institute. You don’t want to make an enemy of him, so you won’t help us? Is that all it is?” 

 

“Can you blame him?” came Woolsey’s voice from the chair. 

 

“Please,” said Tessa, meeting Magnus’ eyes. “I will give anything, do anything. Please, help me save him.” 

 

Magnus gripped a fistful of his hair and groaned. “God, the pair of you,” he muttered. “I can make inquiries. See if the more…  _ unusual  _ shipping routes don’t have something to offer. Old Mol -” 

 

Whoever Old Mol was, Will shook his head. “I’ve been to ask her. Something’s scared her so badly she won’t crawl out of her grave.”

 

“And that doesn’t tell you something, Nephilim?” asked Woolsey. “Is it really worth all of this, just to prolong your…  _ friend’s  _ life another few months? Another year? He will die anyway. And the sooner he dies, the sooner you can marry his fiancée. Really, you should be counting the days with great eagerness until he expires -” 

 

Woolsey did not have the chance to finish that sentence. Tessa’s vision went red, but Will was already there. Issalinde yowled, Will leapt, Woolsey’s monocle went flying, and then the two of them were rolling on the rug, clawing and punching and cursing. 

 

Tessa started forward, not entirely sure if she was going to pull Will back or help him, but Magnus got there first. He dragged Will, struggling, from the room with an arm around his chest as Woolsey sat up, a burn on his cheek from Will’s silver family ring. 

 

Tessa was left staring after them, hand outstretched, Chali whining at her side. 

 

* * *

 

“Let me go! Let me  _ go!” _ Will struggled, but Magnus was immovable. He marched Will down the hall and into a dim library. Casimir became a lion, and picked Issalinde up in his mouth, which Will greatly resented, though he couldn’t free himself to strike out at Magnus. As soon as they were both dropped unceremoniously in the library, Issalinde ran to his arms, hissing furiously with her tail bushed out. 

 

“Picking a fight with the head of the Praetor Lupus,” said Magnus, almost bitterly. “You know what his pack would do to you given the excuse. You really want to die, don’t you?” 

 

“I don’t,” snapped Will, surprising himself a little. 

 

“I don’t know why I ever helped you.” 

 

“You like broken things.” 

 

Magnus gripped him under the chin, forcing him to make eye contact. “You are not Sydney Carton, or some other tragic hero, and it does you no good to lie to yourself,” he said. “What good will it do you to die for James Carstairs when he is dying anyway?” 

 

“If I save him, this will all be worth it -” 

 

“God,  _ what  _ will be worth it? What will  _ possibly be worth it?”  _

 

_ “Everything I’ve lost!”  _ Will’s voice had risen to a shout. He was breathing hard, shaking. 

 

Magnus took a step back, and then several deep breaths, as if he were mentally counting to ten. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “About what Woolsey said.” 

 

“If he dies, I cannot just run off into the sunset and marry Tessa,” said Will. “It will be as if I was waiting for his death, as if I profited from it in some way -” his voice was choked. “I love him. She loves him. Everyone knows it, even though no one says it. He has to live. He has to live, or else it is all just -” 

 

“Pointless, needless suffering and pain?” Magnus sighed. “I don’t suppose it would help if I tell you that that is how life is. Sometimes the good suffer, the evil flourish. All that is mortal passes away.” 

 

“I want more than that,” said Will, and after so many years of wanting nothing, admitting it was a bitter exhilaration. “You  _ made  _ me want more than that. You taught me that I was only cursed because I believed myself so. And now you’d turn your back on what’s your fault.” 

 

Casimir snorted a laugh, and after a moment, Magnus joined him. “You are incorrigible.” 

 

“So you’ll help me?” 

 

A sigh. “Yes. I will help you.” After a thoughtful moment, Magnus reached down his shirtfront and pulled out a heavy necklace. “This won’t help your James, but it might help you against Mortmain’s creatures. It glows when demons are near. A gift of mine to Camille that she returned.” 

 

Will took it with a nod, looking at it. “It’s too pretty.” 

 

“So are you. Now go home, clean yourself up. I’ll contact you.” Magnus met his eyes sharply. “In the meantime, try to be worthy of my assistance.” 

 

* * *

 

“If you try anything,” said Tessa, “I will hit you with the fire poker.” 

 

Woolsey laughed, getting ruefully to his feet and examining his bloodied knuckles. Mostly his blood, but some of Will’s, and that made her even less inclined to be civil to him. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “I see you’ve begun to be like them, those Nephilim warriors you love so much. What possessed you to engage yourself to one of them? And a dying one at that.” 

 

Tessa considered hitting him with the fire poker anyway. Chali was growling, a long unbroken sound. “You don’t know James Carstairs,” she said. “Don’t speak about him.” 

 

“Love him, do you?” He managed to make it sound unpleasant. “Really, what’s the problem if one of them dies? You still have a fine secondary option.” 

 

Tessa thought of Jem, the shape of his smile, violin music at night, his fingers gentle in hers, everything about him incredibly dear to her. “If you had two children,” she said, “would you say it is all right if one of them died, because you’d still have another?” 

 

“One can love two children,” said Woolsey. “So the stories say. But according to the stories, you can only give your heart to one other.” 

 

“Then the stories are wrong,” said Tessa, her jaw set. She realized that, at some point, she had picked up the fire poker and was brandishing it. 

 

“A heart divided against itself cannot stand,” he said. “Or, I believe that’s the quote. I never put much stock in romance myself.” 

 

“House,” said Tessa. 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“It’s 'a house divided against itself that cannot stand,' not a heart. If you’re going to quote at me, perhaps you should check it for accuracy.” 

 

“And perhaps you should stop pitying yourself,” was the reply. “Most people are lucky to have even one great love in their lives. You have found two.” 

 

“Says the man who has none.” 

 

Woolsey leaned back dramatically in his chair. “Oh! The dove has teeth.” He was laughing. But before either of them could say much more, Magnus and Will reappeared, Will just as bloody as before and scowling. 

 

Magnus chuckled. “Tessa, put the poker down,” he said. “There are better ways of handling Woolsey’s moods.” 

 

Begrudgingly, she handed it to him, and went to fetch her gloves. In the blur of voices that she didn’t pay attention to, she could tell by Will’s expression that whatever he and Magnus had said, it hadn’t solved the problem. He still looked haunted, weary. 

 

It was Will’s face she watched as Magnus escorted them out, and as the cool air hit them like a wave. Once the iron gate had closed behind them, she asked, “Did he say he would help?” 

 

“He will try. But - the way he looked at me - he felt sorry for me, Tess. And that’s it, isn’t it? That means there’s no hope.” 

 

Tessa knew what she should say. It was there, on her tongue.  _ Of course there’s hope. Magnus will help, and we will keep searching, and -  _ her eyes welled up and spilled over instead. Chali made a soft noise of pain, transforming back to his goldfinch shape. 

 

Will reached out for her, tears in his own eyes, and they stood there, clinging to each other, in the early darkness. 

 

“I shouldn’t abandon hope,” Will muttered, and she felt the vibration of his voice. “I mustn’t. And yet - I’m so afraid. And I always knew, I knew he would -” 

 

_ That he would die.  _ No one said it, leaving it unspoken between them. Tessa’s breaths were hitched, choking on tears she’d spent too long pushing back, but she listened to Will, now, as they both turned to each other for some sort of solace. 

 

Neither of them were strong enough to put on a brave face for the other, this time, and that in itself was the comfort. 

 

“I don’t know who to be,” Will murmured. “I was an ordinary child, and then a less-than-good man, and now I don’t know. He was always there to tell me who I was.” 

 

“You know who you are,” said Tessa, and though Will shook his head, they stood there for minutes more, pressed against each other, with nowhere else to go. 

 

* * *

 

Magnus watched from Woolsey’s parlor window. Two people, clinging to each other on his front steps as if their lives depended on it. 

 

Woolsey sighed, glancing at him. “Still out there, are they?” 

 

An affirmative hum. 

 

“Messy, all that romance,” he said, walking up behind Magnus. “Better to go on as we do, only the physical.” 

 

“Indeed,” said Magnus, and tried hard not to think of Camille. He leaned back into Woolsey’s chest, absently seeking warmth. 

 

“You gave him her necklace,” said Woolsey, ruining Magnus’ efforts at not thinking. He just nodded, and didn’t speak again until Will and Tessa had gotten into the carriage. 

 

“Do you think there’s a chance for him?” He asked, finally. 

 

“A chance for who?” 

 

“Will Herondale. To be happy.” 

 

Woolsey sighed, setting down his glass of scotch and wrapping an arm around Magnus’ waist. “Is there a chance for  _ you  _ to be happy if he isn’t?” 

 

Magnus said nothing. 

 

“Are you in love with him?” All curiosity, no jealousy. It wasn’t his way to be possessive of lovers. 

 

“No,” said Magnus, after a while. “I wondered that, but no. It’s something else. I feel… I feel that I owe him. If he cannot have happiness, I will feel I have failed him. If he cannot be beside the girl he loves, the boy he wants to save, I will feel I have failed him.” 

 

“Then you will fail him,” said Woolsey. “Then, while you are moping and seeking  _ yin fen,  _ I think I will travel. I want to see the countryside.” 

 

“Do as you like,” said Magnus, and Casimir let the curtain fall, obscuring the carriage as it rolled out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter for everyone! 
> 
> ... Woolsey really is a dick, isn't he. I think I like every single one of Magnus' consorts through the years better than I like Woolsey. He is an interesting character, though?


	5. Bees Became as Butterflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! Sorry for the wait. 
> 
> A more Gideon-and-Gabriel centric chapter, and one that really doesn't diverge from canon. Just perspectives and occasional daemons. I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> The action starts after this, too.

Breakfast the next day was a quiet affair. Will sat silently, eyes shadowed, and picked at his food. Gabriel and Gideon came down together, and murmured amongst themselves. Cecily sat in the corner, reading something without a title. Jem insisted that he was well enough to make an appearance, but he was still unsteady on his feet, and his hands shook when he reached for toast. He shook his head when Tessa offered to get it for him, though, his face carefully devoid of expression. 

 

Will and Tessa looked to each other, and then away. Chali and Issalinde, despite the others in the room, moved to Mela’s side, leaning on her in an attempt to loan her some measure of strength. 

 

In the kitchen, Bridget was singing. 

 

_ “Cold are the drops of rain _

_ The very first love that ever I had _

_ In the greenwood he was slain.  _

_ I’ll do as much for my sweetheart _

_ As any young woman may; _

_ I’ll sit and mourn at his graveside _

_ A twelve-month and a day.”  _

 

“By the Angel, she’s depressing,” said Henry, who looked nearly as exhausted as everyone else. Charlotte put a hand over his, but before she could say anything, the sound of a bell rang through the room. 

 

Charlotte dropped her hand. “Oh, dear,” she said. “There’s something I had meant to tell you all, but -” 

 

The door opened, and Sophie entered. She was followed by none other than Consul Wayland, all broad shoulders and a stony expression. His wolf daemon followed him, its teeth just barely showing. 

 

Will set his fork down. “The Consul, breaking up our breakfast time,” he said, though it was under his breath, and only carried to Jem and Tessa. “What’s next? The Inquisitor over for tea? Picnics with the Silent Brothers?” 

 

“Duck pies in the park,” murmured Jem, and all three of them smothered a laugh, despite the tension in the air. 

 

The Consul did not look at them. “Charlotte,” he said. “I’m here to talk to you about Benedict Lightwood.” 

 

Gabriel clenched his fists in the tablecloth. Quila’s feathers fluffed out, and Gideon set a hand on his brother’s arm, but the Consul was already looking at him. 

 

“Gabriel,” he said. “I had thought you would be at the Blackthorns’, with your sister.” 

 

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, and then relaxed, and he inclined his head. “They are quite overset in their grief for Rupert,” he said, and his tone was as light and courteous as Tessa had ever heard it.  _ His father’s training. “ _ I did not wish to intrude.” 

 

The Consul raised one eyebrow. “Or perhaps it would be… rather uncomfortable to lodge with your sister, considering she has brought a complaint against you for murder.” 

 

Gideon shot to his feet, Niranthia letting out a yip of surprise. “Tatiana did  _ what?”  _

 

“You heard me,” said the Consul. 

 

“It was not murder,” Jem broke in, but Consul Wayland didn’t even glance at him. 

 

“I was informed that it was.” 

 

“Were you also informed that Benedict had turned into a gigantic worm?” demanded Will, and Gabriel gave him a startled, grateful look. 

 

“Will, please,” said Charlotte. “Consul, I notified you yesterday that Benedict Lightwood had been discovered to be in the last stages of astriola.” 

 

“You informed me that there was a battle, and he was killed,” said the Consul. “What I am hearing reported is that he was ill with the pox, and hunted down and killed despite offering no resistance. Tatiana Blackthorn claims that a group of Nephilim from the Institute murdered her father, and that her husband Rupert was killed in the brawl.” 

 

“Did she mention that her father had  _ eaten  _ her husband?” Asked Henry, an unusual sharpness in his tone. Will looked at him approvingly. 

 

“I’d think that would count as offering resistance,” he said, despite Jem kicking him under the table. “Eating one’s son-in-law, that is. Though I suppose everyone has their family altercations?” 

 

Charlotte glared at him again, and Will fell silent rather mutinously. “You are not suggesting,” she said, “That Benedict should have been subdued and restrained, are you? He was in the last stages of the pox, he had gone mad -” 

 

“Tatiana is greatly upset,” the Consul said. “She is considering demanding reparations -” 

 

“Then I will pay them,” snapped Gabriel, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. “I will give my ridiculous sister my salary for the rest of my life if that’s what she demands, but I will  _ not  _ admit to wrongdoing - not for myself, not for any of us. I put an arrow through his eye -  _ its  _ eye - and I would do it again. Whatever that thing was, it was not my father anymore.” 

 

In the silence that fell once he had finished, Gabriel looked like a warrior of old, a bird of prey on his arm, eyes bright and face cut from stone. The Consul, without a response at hand, didn’t reply. Cecily looked at Gabriel with startled admiration, setting her book aside. But before she could speak, Gabriel opened his mouth again. 

 

“I beg your pardon, Consul, but whatever Tatiana is telling you, she does not know the truth of the situation,” he said. “I was there in the house with my father as he sickened over the past fortnight. I came here, I begged for my brother’s help. Charlotte lent me her assistance. I assure you, there was no manner in which my father could have been saved.” 

 

“Then why,” he said, “Would Tatiana -” 

 

“Because she is humiliated,” said Tessa, without knowing she was going to speak. The Consul turned his cold eyes on her, and she lifted her chin as she had seen Charlotte do on so many occasions. “She said as much to me. She believed it would be a blight on the family name if the pox was known of - she is trying to present some kind of alternate narrative. She’s lying.” 

 

“Really, Consul,” said Gideon. “What makes more sense? That we all ran mad and killed my father and are covering it up, or that Tatiana is lying? She never thinks things through.” He sighed. “If you believe we so lightly committed patricide, take us to the Silent City to be questioned.” 

 

“That would,” said the Consul, “be the most sensible course of action.” 

 

Cecily slammed her book onto the table. “That’s not fair,” she said. “They’re telling the truth. We all are, you must know that -” 

 

The Consul gave her a long look. “You expect my trust?” He asked, voice low. “And yet Charlotte conceals her actions from me.”

 

“Josiah,” said Charlotte, hands outstretched. “I informed you of what happened the moment everyone returned -” 

 

“You should have told me before,” he said. “This was no routine mission. As it is, you have left yourself in a position in which I must defend you once more, you and your disobedience in setting out upon this mission without Council approval.” 

 

“There wasn’t time -” 

 

“Enough.” His voice was icy. “Gideon and Gabriel, you will come with me to the Silent City to be questioned. To have you cleared by the Brothers is expedient and will allow me to dismiss Tatiana’s request swiftly. Go downstairs, wait for me in my carriage. When the Brothers are done with you, if they find nothing of interest, we will return you here.”

 

_ “If  _ they find nothing,” said Gideon with disgust. He left the room, and Gabriel followed, his head held high. 

 

“All right,” said the Consul, rounding on Charlotte. “Why did you not tell me the very moment you knew of this? And why did you remove the papers from Benedict’s study? Those papers belong to the Clave. You had no right to look through them.” 

 

“I will gladly give them to you,” said Charlotte, outwardly calm. “In fact, I always planned to. I saw no harm in looking for clues they held beforehand.” 

 

“You are not running the Clave. You are part of the Enclave, and you report to me. Is that clear?” 

 

“Crystal,” said Charlotte. “The next time one of our esteemed members turns into a worm and eats another esteemed member, we will inform you immediately.” 

 

The Consul’s jaw set, making a vein throb at his temple. His daemon’s hackles raised. “Your father was my friend,” he said, after a long moment. “I trusted him, and because of that, I trusted you. Do not make me sorry I supported you against Benedict when he challenged your position.” 

 

“You went along with Benedict,” she snapped. Raimond began to growl, seemingly unheeding of the size difference between him and the Consul’s daemon. “You agreed to give me days to complete an impossible task. You spoke not a word in my defense. If I were not a woman, you would never have behaved in such a way.” 

 

“If you were not a woman,” said the Consul, “I would not have had to.” 

 

With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. Will threw a table knife at the door where his head had been, seething. Tessa felt much the same. 

 

“We needed those papers,” said Jem, ever pragmatic despite the fury in his eyes. 

 

Charlotte was breathing hard, face red, but she managed a smile. “I have already spent last night copying down anything relevant. Much of it was…” she trailed off. 

 

“Gibberish?” Tessa offered. 

 

“Pornographic?” said Will at the same time. “Could be both,” he added. “Haven’t you ever heard of pornographic gibberish before?” 

 

Charlotte laughed a short laugh. “It was more the former than the latter, if you must know. But, Will, we must remember. There was a time when Mortmain was entirely our charge. But this is now the Clave’s problem, as they see it.” 

 

“We have more to lose,” Will retorted, spinning his plate with a scowl. “Mortmain’s after Tessa before the Clave.” 

 

“Then perhaps we will be the ones to catch him, with me as bait,” Tessa said. Jem looked at her with some concern, but no one argued as Charlotte began to rise from her seat. 

 

“There is one more thing,” she said. “Jessamine returns to us tomorrow.” 

 

“What?” Will startled. Tessa flinched, remembering the last time she had seen Jessie - in the Silent City, her eyes red, weeping and terrified. The way Jascuro had lain still, seemingly uncaring of his other half’s fear. “She tried to betray us, Charlotte, and you’re allowing her back?” 

 

It was a good facade, but a facade it was, and Tessa recognized it as such. It hid the fact that Will simply didn’t want to see Jessamine. He had trusted her, thought her family for all that they had fought. Now that everything was colored with betrayal, he wasn’t sure what to feel. 

 

Jem and Tessa exchanged a knowing glance. 

 

“She has no other family, her wealth has been confiscated, and she is in no shape to live on her own,” said Charlotte. “These months of questioning have left her nearly mad. I do not think she will be a danger to us.” 

 

“I have no wish to visit with traitors,” muttered Will. “I have no doubt she’s putting on a show for you, Charlotte, weeping and rending her garments -” 

 

“Well, if she’s rending her  _ garments,”  _ said Jem, with a flick of a smile and a surreptitious squeeze of Will’s hand to calm him. “We all know how much Jessamine likes her garments.” 

 

His smile back was grudging, but real. Charlotte saw her opening and took it. 

 

“Give her a week,” she said. “If you truly cannot bear to have her here, I will make arrangements for her to be sent to Idris.” 

 

Will nodded, and the conversation was left at that. 

 

* * *

 

The Consul’s carriage was large. Gabriel supposed it had to be, to accomodate the wolf daemon. He had always thought only werewolves had wolf daemons.

  
Quila appreciated the space, however, stretching her wings out as Gabriel stared out of the window, his thoughts hollow.  _ Benedict was hunted down and killed. _

 

Hunted and killed. He rolled the words over in his mind. He had killed a monster, as he had grown up doing, yes. But that monster surely had not been his father. His father was still alive somewhere, and any moment Gabriel would see him striding up, long coat flapping in the wind. 

 

“Gabriel.” His brother’s voice. “The Consul asked you something.” 

 

He looked up, met expectant eyes. 

 

“I asked,” said Consul Wayland, “how you were enjoying the hospitality of the Institute.” 

 

He blinked. Little stood out for him among the fog of the past days. Charlotte in the drawing room. Gideon washing the blood from his hands. “It is all right,” he said. “It is not my home.” 

 

“Well, Lightwood house is magnificent. Built on blood and spoils.” 

 

Gabriel stared at him, uncomprehending, while Gideon looked faintly sick. 

 

“I thought you wanted to speak to us about Tatiana,” he said. Rain was beginning to spatter on the window. 

 

“I know Tatiana,” said the Consul, with a wave of his hand. “None of your father’s sense and none of your mother’s temperance. Her request for reparations will be dismissed.” 

 

Gideon glanced up, and their eyes met. Niranthia’s ears flattened to her head. “If you credit her account so little, why are we here?” 

 

“So I could speak with you alone,” was the reply. He glanced out of the window, as the carriage rolled to a stop. They were nowhere near the Silent City, Gabriel could tell, and his skin prickled. 

 

The Consul opened the door and stepped down, gesturing for them to follow. After a nervous hesitation, both brothers did. 

 

They were at Argent Rooms. A gentleman’s club, albeit a somewhat more reputable one. Gabriel’s discomfort increased, and he moved a step closer to Gideon. Consul Wayland didn’t even seem to notice. 

 

“I used to come here with your father,” he said. “Shall we go in?” 

 

It wasn’t a request. They didn’t take it as such, and followed him into the dimly-lit hall. It was circular, lined with benches upon which figures sat, surrounded by women whose dresses were too bright and whose laughter was too loud. One side of the room bore a stage, upon which a woman in a hat and tailcoat and nothing else was singing a raunchy song of some kind, accompanied by a black cat daemon that curled around her seductively.  

 

“Wait here for me a moment,” said the Consul, and vanished into the crowd. 

 

“This couldn’t have waited until after the City?” muttered Gabriel. 

 

“Don’t be a half-wit,” said Gideon, his mouth tight. “He’s not taking us to the City. He wants something else.” 

 

Gabriel had been afraid of that. Quila dug her talons into his shoulder, just enough to sting, as the Consul reappeared with a small bottle of what looked like soda water. His expression was still sour. 

 

“Do you boys have any idea,” he asked, “of the kind of peril you’re in?” 

 

“Peril? From who, Charlotte?” Gideon was incredulous. 

 

“Not from Charlotte.” Consul Wayland took a short drink from the bottle. “Your father did not just break the Law - he blasphemed it. He lay down with demons. You are the Lightwoods - you are  _ all  _ that is left of the Lightwoods. I could turn you and your sister out into the street to beg a living from the mundanes, strike your family name from the records, and I would be well within my rights to do it. And who do you think would stand up for you? Would speak in your defense?” 

 

Gideon’s fist, behind his back, clenched tightly. But he too had been raised in Benedict’s house. “You did not bring us here only to threaten us,” he said, after a long pause. Gabriel, having come to the same conclusion, nodded. “Not unless you want something in return. And if it was something you could ask easily - or legally - you would have done it in the Silent City.” 

 

“Clever man,” said the Consul. “I want you to do something for me. Do it, and I will see to it that, while you may lose your land, you retain your honor and your name.” 

 

“And that is?” 

 

“Observe Charlotte. More specifically, her correspondence. Tell me what letters she receives and sends, to the word. I do not want any surprises like that of your father.” 

 

“You wish us to spy on her.” 

 

The Consul scoffed. “She should not and cannot go over my head in this manner, acting as if her group in the Institute runs under its own laws. James Carstairs, a dying drug addict. The Gray girl, a changeling or a warlock, and Will Herondale, a liar and a brat who no one expected to grow up at all.” He paused, breathing hard. “Charlotte Branwell may run that place like a fiefdom, but it is not. It is an Institute and reports to the Consul. As do you.” 

 

Niranthia’s ears were still pressed flat to her head. Gabriel doubted they had moved since the carriage. She curled her lip to expose her teeth as Gideon opened his mouth. 

 

“Charlotte has done nothing to deserve such a betrayal from me,” he said. 

  
Consul Wayland jerked his chin towards him. “That is what I speak of. Your loyalty is not to her. It is to me. Do you understand that?” 

 

“And if I say no?” 

 

“Then you lose everything. House, lands, name, lineage, purpose.” 

 

“We’ll do it,” said Gabriel, before Gideon could speak, could dig them further into a hole. “We’ll watch her for you.” 

 

“Gabriel -” 

 

“They will throw Tati out onto the streets,” he said. “Her and the child. You would have known she was pregnant if you had stayed.” 

 

The Consul smiled, cold as ice. “Have we an agreement?” 

 

A long moment, and then Gideon nodded. 

 

Gabriel watched the look spread over the Consul’s face. Satisfaction, but no surprise. He had expected nothing better from the Lightwoods. 

 

* * *

 

The ride back to the Institute was silent. A calm before a storm, a feeling Gabriel knew well. And indeed, the moment the Consul’s carriage vanished from view, Gideon pushed Gabriel against the stone wall, holding him there by the collar of his jacket. 

 

Rain fell in a steady drip down Gabriel’s face, and Quila pressed her head into his cheek. 

 

“I will not,” said Gideon. “I will not sell out your soul and mine.” 

 

Gabriel nodded. “I know,” he said, and for a moment, he stopped to enjoy the confusion on his brother’s face. “Have you forgotten Father’s lessons so quickly? It would have done us no good to refuse him outright.” He jerked his head back, freeing himself, and shivered. “We will lie to Charlotte, yes. But we will lie to the Consul as well.” 

 

Gideon raised one eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

 

“Simple scheme. Read the correspondence, and make false reports.” 

 

They were both quiet for a rain-streaked moment. 

 

“If we are discovered,” said Gabriel, “we will face consequences.” 

 

“Then you tell me. Are you willing to risk it for the Institute? Because I am doing this for you, not them. And… because I made a mistake. I trusted our father and I shouldn’t have.” He took a deep breath. “I was wrong, and I’m trying to undo it.” 

 

Gideon looked at him, and then half-smiled. “Was this your plan all along?” 

 

“Would you believe me if I said it was?” His mouth tasted bitter. “Because it is the truth -” 

 

Gideon pulled him into a tight hug, ruffled his hair, and steered him towards the doors to the Institute. 

 

* * *

 

_ To: Consul Wayland _

 

_ Dear Sir,  _

 

_ We are most thankful that you have assigned us the task of monitoring Charlotte Branwell’s behavior. We are grieved to announce that we have shocking tidings to report.  _

 

_ Though she dresses plainly when you see her, Mrs. Branwell bedecks herself in fine silks and jewels. The money she spends upon hats alone rivals the annual income of a small country. We fail to see why one small woman needs so many hats. She is unlikely to be hiding multiple additional heads upon her person.  _

 

_ She skimps on household necessities to a horrifying degree, lest it interfere with her headwear. We sit down to meals of gruel.  _

 

_ We very much hope that you will be able to assist us in this matter, and that Mrs. Branwell’s expenditures on hats will be put in check.  _

 

_ Yours truly,  _

 

_ Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood _


	6. I Think I Was Enchanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for pain and emotions??
> 
> ... nah, me neither.

Early the next morning, Charlotte called the inhabitants down to the drawing room with a clipped, tense voice. Cecily had lived in the Institute long enough to know that such a voice was to be obeyed immediately, and she and Tiran didn’t dawdle on the way. 

 

The room filled quickly, despite the fact that it was only a little past sunrise. Cecily examined them all. Charlotte, pinched and pale. Henry, concerned. Jem, wan and shaky despite the fact that he should have recovered by now, leaning on Tessa’s arm. Will, brooding. Gabriel, still warrior-like, and Gideon, expressionless. 

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Charlotte. She looked down at her desk, upon which was a folded letter and a small packet. “I’ve received a… disturbing piece of correspondence.” Out of the corner of her eye, Cecily saw Gideon flinch. No one else seemed to notice, so she rubbed Tiran’s ears and kept it to herself. “From the Magister.” 

 

“From  _ Mortmain?”  _ Tessa leaned forward, seemingly unable to help herself, though her arm never moved from around Jem. “He  _ wrote  _ to you? Why?” 

 

“Not to inquire about your health, I’m sure,” muttered Will. “What does he want?” 

 

Charlotte opened the paper and read aloud. 

 

_ My Dear Mrs. Branwell,  _

 

_ Forgive me for troubling you at what must be a distressing time for your household. I was grieved, though I must confess not shocked, to hear of Mr. Carstairs’ grave indisposition.  _

_ I believe you are aware that I am the happy owner of a large - I might even say exclusively large - portion of the medicine that Mr. Carstairs requires for his continued well-being. Thus we find ourselves in a most interesting situation.  _

_ I would be very glad to make an exchange to the satisfaction of both parties. If you are willing to confide Miss Gray to my keeping, I will place a large amount of the drug in yours.  _

_ I send a token of my goodwill .Pray let me know your decision by writing to me. If the sequence of numbers printed at the bottom of this letter are spoken to my automaton, I am sure to receive it.  _

 

_ Yours Sincerely,  _

_ Axel Mortmain  _

 

_ 3 4 1 3 7 12 9 _

  
  


“That is all,” Charlotte said, and folded the letter again. “That, and a small packet of  _ yin fen.” _

 

There was silence. Cecily glanced around, unable to speak. Will was looking away as if to hide his expression. Jem’s face was whiter than ever, and Tessa stood very still, the light of sunrise giving an odd glow to her eyes and catching on the metal of the angel pendant she wore. 

 

“Mortmain wants me,” she said, finally, as if to ensure she’d understood. “In exchange for the  _ yin fen.”  _

 

“It is ridiculous,” said Jem. “The letter should be given to the Clave to see if they can use it to find his location, that’s all.” 

 

“They won’t be able to,” said Will, quiet. “The Magister has proved himself too clever for that.” 

 

“This is not clever,” snapped Jem. “This is blackmail.” 

 

“I agree,” said Will, rising from his chair and putting a hand on Jem’s elbow. “I say we take the packet as a blessing, a handful more that will help you, and ignore the rest.” 

 

“Mortmain wrote the letter about me,” said Tessa, her voice quiet but firm. “The decision should be mine, not yours.” She shook her head when Will opened his mouth, and pulled Chalivan closer to her. “I will go.” 

 

There was another silence. Charlotte was ashen. Gabriel and Gideon looked desperately uncomfortable, and Cecily didn’t blame them - the tension between Will, Jem, and Tessa felt like it only needed one small word or act to tip the scales, to light the powder keg. 

 

“No,” said Jem, and he broke free of Tessa’s arm and Will’s hand. Tremors still ran through his body, but he stood upright on his own. “Tessa, you cannot.” 

 

“I can,” she replied. “You are my fianc é . I cannot, will not, allow you to die when I might help you, and Mortmain doesn’t mean me physical harm -” 

 

“We don’t know what he wants,” Will broke in. “We don’t know what he means, he can’t be trusted!” 

 

Chalivan became a cat. Cecily, already on edge, jumped in her seat, and then prayed no one had noticed. She still hadn’t adjusted to seeing a grown woman’s daemon change like a child’s. Now, his fur was bristling, and he stared Issalinde down with baleful yellow eyes. 

 

“If it were you Mortmain wanted, you would go,” Tessa said, and they exchanged a long look. The sort of look that Cecily knew better than to mention. 

 

“No,” said Jem, breaking it. “I would forbid him as well.” 

 

Tessa turned to Jem with the first expression of anger towards him Cecily had ever seen. “You  _ cannot  _ forbid me, not any more than you could forbid Will -” 

 

“I can,” he said, as another tremor ran through his shoulders. Tessa didn’t reach out to steady him. “For a very simple reason. The drug isn’t a cure. It only extends my life by some marginal amount. I won’t let you throw away your life for a remnant of mine.” He was breathing hard, but he lifted his chin and met Tessa’s eyes. “If you go to Mortmain, it will be for nothing. I still won’t take the drug.” 

 

Will’s head snapped up. “James -” he started, but Tessa was already speaking. 

 

“You would not,” she breathed. “You wouldn’t insult me by throwing a sacrifice I made for you back in my face like that.” 

 

Jem strode across the room, determination seemingly the only thing keeping him upright, and snatched the packet - and the letter - from Charlotte’s desk. “Better to insult you than lose you for nothing,” he said, and before anyone could move, he threw both items into the fire. 

 

Suddenly, everyone was shouting. Henry dashed forward, but Will was already there. He dropped to his knees before the grate and shoved his hands into the flames. 

 

Cecily jumped from her chair, and on impulse, seized her idiotic brother by the shoulders and pulled him back. The still-burning packet fell from his hands and onto the rug, and then there was Gideon, stamping out the flames until all that remained was a mess of burned paper and silver powder. 

 

The letter with the instructions was gone. Cecily released Will and looked into the fire for some clue - what had the numbers been? 7.. 4 3 1? 3 1 3? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember - 

 

Dimly, she registered that Issalinde was crying out in pain, a weak sound that made Cecily’s heart ache just to hear it. Will himself wasn’t crying, but his breathing was hitched on pained gasps. His hands were livid red, and white where they were already blistering. 

 

“Will,” said Jem, sounding lost. He fell to his knees beside him. “Will, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Will, I’m so sorry -” 

 

As he spoke, Kasimela, frantic, stood before Issalinde, nosing at her, trying to soothe her. Issalinde turned away from the comfort in one harsh motion, still crying, and huddled closer to Will’s side. 

 

Charlotte, out from behind her desk, ignored the chaos as she took Will’s arm, quickly inking a healing rune. It didn’t take effect immediately, but after a long, pained moment, his breathing eased. 

 

“There’s still some that can be saved,” he said, flat and uninflected. He didn’t seem to notice Jem at all. “It had better be gathered up before anything else happens to it.” 

 

“Here,” said Tessa, her voice equally still. She bent down with a handkerchief, scooping up perhaps half a handful of  _ yin fen.  _ All that Will had saved from the fire. “Take this.” She placed it in Jem’s hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head, eyes flinty, and rose to her feet. 

 

Looking utterly shattered, Jem watched as she walked from the room. 

 

* * *

 

Will sat, feeling empty, as Charlotte hovered over him, insisting on smearing salve onto his hands. The iratze had more or less finished its work, but they were still tender and sore. 

 

Most of the others had left, now. Those who remained were Charlotte and her motherly fussing, Cecily sending occasional glares at him from a chair by the fire, and Jem, forlornly sitting with his back against the side of Will’s chair. 

 

It was much as he had always sat, while Will was being bandaged up from fights. He had taken perhaps a teaspoon of the  _ yin fen _ Mortmain had sent, and there was color in his face again. Had it not been for Cecily, he would have thought himself in the past. 

 

Speaking of Cecily - “Will is always injuring himself,” she said, after a somewhat pitying glance at Jem’s expression. “Once he fell off the roof and broke both of his arms.”

 

Jem mustered a smile for her - because he was Jem, and Jem could manage a smile for anyone - but it lacked his usual sun. He looked down at his own hands, where Mela was nosing at them, and Will knew what he was thinking - that it would be better if Jem’s hands had been burned over Will’s. 

 

Will made a valiant effort to stay angry with him, to remember how afraid he had been. He was not in the least bit successful. He wasn’t sure he could ever stay angry with Jem. Instead, he gently cuffed him over the head. “You need your hands for the violin,” he said. “What do I need mine for?”

 

Jem didn’t take the bait. “I should have known you’d do that,” he murmured. “I always know what you’ll do.” 

 

“Then I should have known you’d throw the packet away,” Will said, without anger, and that coaxed a more hopeful look from his parabatai. “It was a mad and foolish thing to do, but I suppose I understand why you did it.” 

 

Jem laughed softly, carefully. When Will’s expression didn’t change, he smiled in relief and leaned his head back onto Will’s knee. “Mad things are your area of expertise. Am I now the one who does something ridiculous, and you the one who picks up the pieces?” 

 

“I wish,” said Will, “that you wouldn’t risk yourself.” The lack of anger was making him feel heavy with exhaustion, and it loosened his tongue. Issalinde was a heavy, purring warmth on his lap - he hadn’t slept long enough the past night, and the  _ iratze  _ was drawing from his strength. 

 

“I have always wished that about you.” Jem got unsteadily to his feet, and brushed Will’s hands with the tips of his fingers, careful not to hurt him. “I am sorry, William. Please believe me.” 

 

Will frowned. “Are you leaving?” 

 

“Yes, but only to find Tessa.” A half-smile and a flash of silver eyes. Balm on Will’s heart. “You should let yourself rest.” 

 

Will’s eyes were already drifting closed. He didn’t hear the door shut, but he did hear Bridget’s voice, carrying through the hall. He was weary enough that he didn’t find it annoying, only soothing. 

 

_ Truth is brighter than the light _

_ Falsehood darker than the night _

_ Revenge is sharper than an axe _

_ And love is softer than melting wax.  _

 

Cecily’s voice came from her chair near the fire. “Mam used to sing riddle songs like that to us. Remember?” 

 

Will nodded. “Mm.” It was a pleasant memory, among many others that he had never allowed himself to dwell on. “Do you remember Lake Tal-y-Lyn? There’s nothing so blue anywhere in London.” 

 

Cecily inhaled sharply. “Of course I remember. I thought you did not.” 

 

“Will remembers all of it,” said Issalinde, her ears twitching slowly, and Will drifted off to sleep, curled in the armchair as Charlotte watched over him and his sister rested somewhere in the sunlight nearby. 

 

* * *

 

_ To: Gabriel and Gideon Lightwood _

_ From: Consul Josiah Wayland  _

 

_ I fail to perceive how I could possibly have made myself more clear. I wish for you to relay to me the details of Charlotte’s correspondence. I did not request any persiflage about the woman’s headwear. I care neither about her daily dress, nor your daily menu.  _

_ Pray write back to me with a letter containing relevant information. I trust your next missive will be more befitting of Nephilim, and less of Bedlamites.  _

 

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Consul Wayland  _

 

* * *

 

Tessa sat at her window, watching the morning sun stream in. She couldn’t clear her mind of the expression on Jem’s face as Charlotte read the letter, of the image of Will’s burned hands, of the tiny amount of  _ yin fen  _ she had managed to save. Of Jem’s anguished apology to Will,  _ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.  _

 

Their pain was, albeit indirectly, because of her. She knew it was foolish to think that way, that their pain came from Mortmain and was not her fault, but the thought stayed curled, poisonous, in her mind. 

 

How could three people who cared so much for each other cause each other so much pain? 

 

Chali lay on the bed, brooding, disinterested in moving or giving her advice. Tessa didn’t blame him - she felt much the same. It had been a foolish idea to offer herself up to Mortmain, and she knew it. But she couldn’t bear to be the cause of so much suffering in those she loved and not do  _ something  _ to fix it. If she gave herself up, perhaps it would be as if she had never come to the Institute. Jem would live longer, and he and Will would have each other - 

 

“No,” said Chalivan, from where he lay. Tessa groaned. 

 

Nothing she did now could turn back time, unmake the feelings that existed between them all. 

 

She wanted to run to Jem’s room, beg him to forgive her. Would he be disappointed in her? The thought of that, of his disappointment, was almost worse than knowing he was angry. She also wanted to talk to Will, to see if his hands were healing and reason out why Jem had acted in such a way, but Charlotte had told her that Will was asleep in the drawing room. 

 

Well. There was no use sitting in her room, regretting things and feeling awful. After another long moment of hesitation, she got to her feet. Chali sighed, but flew to her shoulder nevertheless. 

 

When she opened the door, a small piece of paper lay in front of it. Written in a familiar script, it read: 

 

_ Meet me in the music room?  _

_ -J  _

 

Nervously - she admitted it to herself - Tessa made her way down the stairs. For all that she had just planned to find Jem, now she wasn’t sure she was ready to speak with him. 

 

The music room was softly lit, the sunlight not quite making it through the windowpanes. She could see her own reflection in them, albeit faintly - a plain woman in the blue dress Jessamine had bought her. Across the window was Jem’s. A slender shape with a mop of silver hair. 

 

She tore her gaze away from the window and looked at him, where he was standing near the empty fireplace. His face was anxious, she saw with some surprise. Hopeful. 

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, quietly. 

 

At that, and at his seeming lack of anger, Tessa relaxed. “Of course I did,” she said. “Jem, I’m sorry. I should never have suggested giving myself up. I couldn’t bear the thought that harm would come to you because of me, because in some way I’m connected to Mortmain.”  He opened his mouth to say something, but she talked on, panicked that she wouldn’t be able to convince him. “I wasn’t seeing sense. Even if I did go to him there’s no guarantee he would honor his end of the bargain.” She swallowed hard. “Forgive me. I don’t understand why you did what you did, but I know that my own actions that pushed you to it were unacceptable.” 

 

Jem shook his head, and extended a hand to her. She bypassed it on her way to hug him, tightly, and he laughed. 

 

“I was not thinking either,” he said, and his arms went around her. “I sought to stop you at any cost, and I did something foolish and ill-thought-out. I hurt you. I am so very sorry.” 

 

Tessa shook her head, smiled into his shoulder. “You are forgiven. Of course you’re forgiven.” 

 

Chali, suddenly relieved and full of greater energy, settled on Mela’s back with a contented warble. Mela laughed and rolled over, dislodging him, and they burst into a flash of playful movement. Tessa watched, for a moment, feeling more content than she had in some time. 

 

Then Jem pulled away from the embrace with a half-smile and a quick, chaste kiss - only a press of lips. “I - there was something,” he said, and his face was red. “Something I wished to give you. A gift, for when we were married. But I’d like to give it to you now?” 

 

“A gift? But - we fought -” 

 

“An integral part of married life, I have been told. I expect talking it out is good practice.” When she opened her mouth again, Jem shook his head in some amusement. “Do you really believe there is any quarrel, big or small, that would make me stop caring for you?” 

 

Tessa smiled despite herself. She thought of Will, of all the years he had tested Jem’s patience and loyalty, driven him mad with nonsense and self-destruction, and how through all of it, Jem’s love had never so much as wavered. That was how Jem loved, she realized. Unconditionally and with all of his heart. 

 

“I have no gift for you,” she said, but Jem only smiled. He had his violin with him, she realized, set aside on a table. Mela brought him his bow, carried gently in her mouth, and he took it. He was still nervous, Tessa saw, as he spoke again.

 

“Can I play for you?” 

 

“You don’t ever need to ask.” She settled herself into a chair, tilted her head to listen. 

 

“I wrote something for you.” 

 

For a moment, there was silence, and then he began to play. 

 

Tessa had never understood music. She didn’t know the difference between the notes and the letters, between a sonata or a sonatina. But she understood sound, and beauty, and the music Jem was playing was more beautiful than any she had ever heard. 

 

It was a sweet melody, on the surface, nothing like anything she knew and all the more amazing for it. Jem closed his eyes as he played, and she watched him in stunned silence as the music swelled.

 

Chali and Mela had stopped playing, entranced by the sound. Tessa felt she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything to disturb this moment. 

 

She didn’t realize she was crying until the last notes faded away and he lowered the violin. 

 

Slowly, he returned it to his case and looked at her, a slightly nervous smile on his lips. “Did you like it?” He asked. 

 

Tessa was speechless.

 

“I could have given you something more… real, but I wanted it to be something that was yours. That no one else could own. And I am not good with words, so I wrote something for you in music.” He hesitated. “Do you like it?” he asked again, but the tone of his voice seemed to suggest he expected a ‘no’. 

 

Before Tessa could find the words, Chali flew to his chest, pressing into his collarbones, much in the way he did to Tessa when one of them needed comfort. Jem gasped, startled, but cupped his hand around him with a quiet reverence. “I -” 

 

“James,” she said, and when her voice broke she wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying. “James, it was beautiful.”  _ I loved it _ seemed like a redundancy, a gross understatement. 

 

His face lit with hope, and she smiled, tears still on her cheeks. “I love you,” she said, and perhaps those were the words she had been looking for, because when he smiled back, it was with all the light and love she thought her heart could hold. 


	7. Approached and Spurned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This book kills me. 
> 
> Now this can kill you guys too. 
> 
> Ready for 2500 words of pain?

It was not even an hour later that a carriage rolled up to the Institute’s gates. 

 

Jessamine. 

 

Tessa stood on the steps, feeling the wind on her face. It was a beautiful day, for autumn, and her heart was so warm that she couldn’t contain a smile. Jem was beside her, their smallest fingers linked behind her skirts. They hadn’t moved more than a foot or two from each other’s sides, and she didn’t have any intention to, either.

 

It was a strange thing, to feel so loved. Tessa felt so light that she couldn’t even muster up anger or hurt about Jessamine’s old betrayal - none she hadn’t already felt a thousand times, already gone over in her head until the edges softened. 

 

They would have Jessie back, and she would be cold and bitter and hurt inside, and Tessa would be glad to see her. 

 

Everyone had gathered to meet the carriage - well, nearly everyone. Will, claiming he had to find Cyril, was dawdling, still wary of Jessamine - and so Tessa was not the first to notice that there was a second carriage behind the first. That was Charlotte, who frowned, Raimond’s ears twitching. “Another carriage?” 

 

“An escort,” said Gabriel with a shrug. “They might think she plans to escape.” 

 

“She wouldn’t -” 

 

But both carriages had already rolled to a stop. The first was driven by a Silent Brother, and he stepped down to open the door, placing his hand upon the handle. Before he could turn it, the driver of the second - another Brother - leapt down, approaching him. 

 

The first turned to the second, and for a moment, all was still. 

 

Then the second figure tossed its robes away. 

 

Beneath them, it was made entirely of metal. Shimmering, with a rounded head, and eyeless. Copper held its joints together, and it was humanoid enough, save for the fact that its right arm ended in a crude metal crossbow. It raised that arm, and a steel bolt flew through the air, embedding itself in the chest of the Silent Brother, sending him flying backwards. He hit the ground hard, blood soaking into the chest of the pale robes. 

 

Charlotte shouted something. Jem’s finger slipped out of hers. 

 

Tessa, for a moment, could only see that Silent Brothers bled as red as any other. Then her mind cleared, and she struggled to take in as much of her surroundings as she could. 

 

Henry was running to the carriage, opening the door. Jessamine tumbled out, her body limp. She looked vastly different from even the broken woman Tessa had visited in the cell. She wore a ragged white dress, and her hands - bruised and swollen - clutched at Henry’s shoulders as Jascuro clung tightly to the fabric of her gown. Her golden hair had been shorn close to her head, as if she was a fever patient. 

 

“Henry,” she gasped. 

 

He rose, turning, with Jessamine in his arms, as the door to the second carriage opened. Automatons poured out, moving towards the steps, and Jem was saying her name, and so was Chali, and that was when Tessa realized that she had no weapon. She hadn’t even planned on training today. 

 

Refusing to freeze at the sudden wave of fear, Tessa ran back into the entrance hall. Chali flew frantically, looking for anything, anything at all that could serve her purpose. There were swords on the walls - decorative ones, yes, but surely a sword was a sword? She seized the first one her eyes fell on, wrenching it free, and then spun around and ran back through the doors. 

 

The scene in the courtyard was chaos. 

 

Jessamine had fallen, and was huddled with her back to one of the carriage wheels. Henry stood in front of her, slashing out at an attacker with a seraph blade. The other creatures had spread out. One fought Charlotte, while Gabriel and Gideon together harried another. Quila was shrieking in fury. 

 

Jem rose from a crouch, flinging his sword-cane through the head of one automaton. It staggered, grinding, but didn’t seem deterred,only turning away from him and reaching out for Charlotte, who was preoccupied with her own enemy. Tessa moved without thinking, putting her weight behind the sword as Gabriel had shown her over and over, letting gravity guide the fall. The blade sheared off one of the thing’s arms, and Charlotte nodded gratefully, sweat streaking her face. 

 

Where was Will? Tessa wondered, frantic. He had hidden himself away, but surely he had heard something. She wasn’t Jem, she didn’t have any mystical connection to him, couldn’t sense if he was in danger. She looked around, heart jolting. 

 

And then a figure, dressed all in black, loomed in front of her. She could see nothing of it besides a pale, grayish face under a black cloak, a face she saw often in recurring nightmares, leaning over her and forcing her into new forms. 

 

A face that should have been dead. 

 

“Hello, Miss Gray,” said Mrs. Black. Her hand reached out, covered in a dark glove, and Tessa smelled a thick, sharp scent. 

 

Then she knew no more. 

 

* * *

 

Will knew he should have been in the courtyard. Should have greeted Jessie with the rest. It wasn’t even that he held a grudge against her, he reminded himself. He had been just as cruel as she had. And wasn’t that just the thing? 

 

For Will, Jessamine was a reminder of the time  _ before.  _ Before he knew his curse was false. Another person he’d pushed away, and the only one who’d been content to push back. Someone to hate, who he didn’t have to feel remorse over, because it was clear she hated him in return. 

 

He wasn’t sure he knew how to handle a Jessie he didn’t have to torment. He was almost afraid that seeing her, listening to her, would draw out the instinctual cruelty he was learning to control. Would prove that he was no better without a curse than he had been with one. 

 

And so he hid. Up in his room, where he never spent much time, where no one would look for him. He would see her at dinner, he had no doubt. 

 

Will never denied that he could be a coward. 

 

He was drawn from his thoughts by a sudden tightness around his chest. It felt - almost as it felt when another daemon lashed out at Issalinde, perhaps, but it was so strong that he stumbled, leaning up against the wall. 

 

“Issalinde?” 

 

She shook her head. The tightness only increased, and then Will realized, even as she was opening her mouth to speak. 

 

“Jem,” she said. 

 

Will sprinted down the stairs. He didn’t remember leaving his room - he was simply there, and then he wasn’t, and who cared? He needed to find Jem, find his  _ parabatai. _ He had a few seraph blades, and one ordinary knife - it would have to be enough. Surely it would be enough.

 

_ Unless,  _ said a painful voice,  _ it’s not a fight. Unless he’s -  _

 

Swearing, Will reached the entrance hall, and stared out at the scene in the courtyard. 

 

Jessamine, slumped against the wheel of a carriage Will didn’t recognize - the only cover the courtyard had to offer. Charlotte and Henry, on either side of her, protecting, laying waste around them. Gabriel and Gideon were fighting with the practiced confidence of brothers who had fought together since they were children. Cecily, leaning over the body of a Silent Brother, fending off another metal assailant as Sophie ran to her side.

 

Where was Jem? Where was Tessa? 

 

Tessa was nowhere to be seen, but -  _ there.  _ Jem, unarmed and pale, shaking -  _ he hasn’t had enough of the drug -  _ but steady enough on his feet as he backed away from an automaton. It had slashed his shoulder, directly over the  _ parabatai  _ rune. And that, Will thought grimly, was a blessing. He had felt that pain over his own rune, on his heart.

 

Jem looked up with a half-smile and reached out a hand. Will grabbed the fallen sword-cane and threw it, unerringly, and Jem caught it from the air, driving it down into the metal creature’s torso. With another whirl, he cut it off at the knees, and the thing collapsed. 

 

Will grinned. Jem didn’t return it. He was pale, too pale, and shaking harder than ever. But before Will could approach him, he turned and ran out of the gates. 

 

Lost, Will turned, only to see that the battle was winding down. Charlotte and Henry dispatched one automaton, while Sophie and Cecily were breaking another into bits. Will started towards the gates, intending to run after Jem, but Issalinde nipped at his ankle. 

 

“Look,” she said. 

 

Jessamine was crawling, weakly, out from behind the carriage. Her palms drove into the broken glass of the window, but she didn’t even seem to notice. 

 

There was blood along her back, blood too red to be anything but hers. 

 

Without thinking - there wasn't time, no time to think about what that blood meant - Will picked her up, carrying her away from the chaos. She was light, so much lighter than he would have thought. He only made it to the foot of the stairs before she spoke. 

 

“Will,” she said, and her voice was weak. Jascuro, seemingly unable to fly on his own, clung to her dress. “Will, put me down.” 

 

“I have to get you inside,” he said, dully. 

 

“Will Herondale,” she said, and he saw to his horror that there was blood in her mouth. “If you cared about me at all, even a little, you will put me down.” 

 

He sank down, trying his best to keep her still, lean her head against his shoulder. She still cried out, flinching, and her teeth were stained with red. 

 

“Jessie. Where are you hurt?” 

 

“Hm,” she said, seeming indifferent. “A creature. Its talon went through my back. It pierced my lung, I can feel it.” Jascuro didn’t even curl against her for comfort - he stayed, swaying, on the shoulder of her dress. 

 

“An  _ iratze,  _ the Silent Brothers -” Will felt numb, shocked. 

 

“I won’t have them touch me again. I’d rather die.” Jessamine laughed, then grimaced, her face contorting. “I  _ am  _ dying. And I’m glad of it.” 

 

She was telling the truth, he realized with a bleak pain. She didn’t seem afraid, didn’t have that panicked grasp on life that so many dying Nephilim did. Jessamine Lovelace had the look of a girl who had been through enough that she considered death her better option. 

 

Will looked down at her. He remembered how she had been when he’d arrived at the Institute. Angry, shrieking, ready to gouge his eyes out. No kindness, from either of them, but he’d admired her in an odd way. Admired the strength of her hatred, the force of her will. 

 

“Jessie.” He put a hand on her cheek, awkwardly. It smeared the blood along her skin. 

 

“You needn’t.” A cough. “Be kind to me, I mean. Just because I’m dying. I know you hate me.” 

 

“I don’t hate you.” It was probably the truth. If it wasn't, he didn't dwell on one lie among many. 

 

“You never visited me. In the City. The others all did, but never you. You are not forgiving.” 

 

“No.”

 

“And yet I liked you best.” Her eyes were glazed, but still alert, and she ran them over his face. “You hated yourself. I understood that. Jem always wanted to give me a chance, and so did Charlotte… but I don’t want someone’s generous heart. I want to be seen as I am.” A gasping breath. The blood was forming bubbles around her mouth - she would drown in it. Will felt sick, and his arms tightened around her for a moment. “Which is why, if I ask you to do something, will you do it?” 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“Take care of them. Baby Jessie, and the others.” 

 

It took Will a moment. Then he realized she meant the dolls. Dear God. “I won’t let them destroy your things, Jessamine.” 

 

A tiny smile. Jascuro huffed a bit before Jessamine spoke again. “I thought they might - not want anything to remember me by.” 

 

“You’re not hated,” he said, suddenly struck with the panicked urge to make her believe it, while there was still time. “Whatever world lies beyond this one, don’t go to it thinking that. We loved you.” The past tense lay between them, heavy, and he knew she heard it. 

 

“You’d have liked me better if I’d told you where Mortmain was,” she said, though it was barely comprehensible. She grimaced, trying to spit blood, but only rasped out a choked breath as a stream of red fell from the side of her mouth. Still, her next words were clearer. “I might not have lost your love, then.” 

 

“Then tell me now,” said Will. “Earn that love back.” It was a horrible thing he was doing. A cruel, clumsy manipulation. 

 

It was all Jessamine knew how to handle, and all she would have expected from him anyway. She smiled wider. 

 

“Idris,” she said. 

 

“We know that’s not true -” 

 

“I thought you of all people would understand. You’re a terrible Welshman.” Her fist clenched, then relaxed. She didn’t have the strength to hold on much longer. 

 

“Jessamine -” 

 

“But I will miss you anyway,” she said, around one final mouthful of blood. Her lips curved upward, a rictus smile. 

 

Jascuro didn’t make a sound as he flickered out. 

 

Will, his throat burning despite himself, reached to close her eyes. 

 

_ “Ave atque vale,  _ Jessamine Lovelace,” he said into the quiet. 

 

Charlotte screamed. 

 

It was a horrible, chilling sound - the sound of a mother mourning her child, even if that child wasn’t hers by blood. She had slumped in Henry’s arms, and Will flinched, feeling the force of her grief. Wanting to run, to get away from this horrible, broken moment. 

 

He didn’t know how to comfort her. He couldn’t even comfort Jessamine as she was dying - how could he be expected to comfort Charlotte? Will, shaking, laid Jessie’s body down onto the ground. He looked away from her, looked towards his sister, and swallowed down the pain, along with the urge to run. There would be time. 

 

“Jem?” He said, a question. 

 

Cecily stared at him. Her expression was full of pity and horror. “He… he went off after Tessa.” 

 

Will’s blood went colder even than it had been. “What do you mean,” he said, “he  _ went off after Tessa?”  _

 

“One - one of them took her. Threw her into the carriage. We couldn’t follow, they were blocking us, but he ran -” 

 

Will stumbled to his feet. His hands were tight fists, the nails drawing blood - when had that happened? Or was the blood not even his? His mind was spinning. “I’m going after them.” 

 

“Will, no,” started Henry through tears, Charlotte still in his arms, but before either of them could argue, the gates opened again. 

 

Jem stood there, covered in blood. The black, oil-like blood of the automatons, but red blood as well. He neared them, then stopped, face blank and whiter than snow. He looked like Thomas had looked, when Will had found him bleeding out on the stairs. 

 

Will had had so many people die in his arms. It was a life of death that they led.

 

Will would  _ not  _ let it touch Jem. 

 

“James?” He said, voice trembling, and there was a world of questions in that one word. 

 

“She’s gone,” said Jem, voice flat. “I ran. I ran after the carriage. I couldn’t run fast enough -” and then he doubled up, as if someone had struck him. Will ran to his side, but he was too late to catch him as he fell hard, onto his knees and elbows, blood spattering the ground in front of him. Kasimela, swaying, ran to Will’s arms as Will knelt beside them both, and he clung to her, heedless of who might be watching. He would give her comfort, and strength, and Jem would pull through, and, and - 

 

And Jem rolled onto his back and was still. 


	8. Like Sanctifying in the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This even hurt me while I wrote it. 
> 
> Why.

 

Cecily paced the hallway. 

 

The door to Jem’s room was cracked open. Through it she could see the shape of her brother where he knelt beside Jem’s bed, his head down on his arms, face buried on the coverlet. Issalinde had settled herself between Kasimela’s unconscious form and the rest of the room, defensive but somehow… desperate. 

 

Jem had not awoken. She understood from the murmurs, from Charlotte and Henry and Sophie, that he might never wake up again. 

 

With a look at Tiran, Cecily steeled herself and moved to push the door open, stepping forward - and felt a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. She looked up in startled annoyance to see Gabriel Lightwood, shaking his head. 

 

He was plainly exhausted. Flecked with blood - Gideon had received a bad wound to the leg, and he and Sophie had spent the past hours tending to him. His collar was damp with sweat. Quila, amber eyes weary, stood beside him on the floor. 

 

“Don’t go in there,” he said. “Jem needs Will more, now.” 

 

“You hate Will,” she said. “Why would I trust you? And this is important.” 

 

Gabriel sighed. “It’s true, I don’t  _ like  _ Will Herondale. I never have. But I am beginning to see that he has an odd sense of honor, and even if I despise him, Jem is one of the best of us. I would see Will spared for his sake.” 

 

“The thing I want to say to my brother,” said Cecily, “is important enough that Jem would want me to tell him.” 

 

There was a silence. Neither of them backed down for a long moment, and then - almost to Cecily’s own surprise - Gabriel sighed. 

 

“Then I am trusting you that this is as important as you say,” he said, and turned to enter the room. There was a murmur of voices, and then he emerged, Will following him. With a jerk of his head and no further words whatsoever, Gabriel walked back off down the hall, probably to return to Gideon’s bedside. 

 

“Will,” said Cecily.

 

He ignored her. 

 

“Gwilym Owain.” 

 

Issalinde’s eyes flicked upwards, though Will still showed no sign of interacting with his sister. He was looking at Jem’s closed door as if his mind was still there and Gabriel had only dragged his body into the hall against his will. Cecily made a frustrated sound, and this at least spurred Issalinde to words. 

 

“I didn’t speak for two years after we arrived,” she said, tilting her head. 

 

Cecily raised her eyebrows. Issalinde laughed a little, but she was still preoccupied and sad. “ _ Exactly _ two years after we arrived. Do you want to know why?” 

 

Cecily  _ wanted  _ to talk to her brother. But something told her that this was the best way to do so, so she nodded, and she and Tiran sat on the floor in front of Issalinde. After a long moment, Will tore his eyes away from Jem’s door and sat beside them. 

 

“November tenth,” he said, and his voice was rough from the hours of silence. “The date I arrived. I spent the first anniversary in my room, breaking things. I kept thinking of you, of Mam and Dad, of Ella. Of how you must hate me for leaving without any word. Until that evening, when Jem decided that he absolutely  _ had  _ to go on an errand to some part of Whitechapel we’d never been near, and he absolutely  _ had  _ to have me along. We got hopelessly lost and were dragged back to the Institute by a werewolf shopkeeper.” A bitter half-smile touched his mouth. “The next year, Jem didn’t even wait until the evening. He decided it was time to test Henry’s inventions for him and he needed my help to ensure nothing turned into a frog. By then, I’d figured out what he was doing. Issalinde had just settled by then, and I was too uncertain to thank him myself. So she told him.” Will shrugged. “He still does it. Every November tenth, like clockwork, there’s some ridiculous thing he absolutely  _ needs  _ my help with, and it always ends up going wrong somehow, and taking up the entire day.” 

 

Cecily stared at him. Despite the words in her head, asking to be spoken, she was silent. She hadn’t heard Will speak so openly since - since  _ ever,  _ she thought. Certainly not since she’d arrived at the Institute. 

 

Will put his arms around himself, as if he were cold. “I don’t know who to be,” he murmured. “He would know. Tess would know. But he’s -” Will couldn’t say the word. Cecily thought it, nonetheless.  _ Dying.  _ “And she’s gone, and -” 

 

“Will, listen to me. This is about finding her. I know where Mortmain is.” 

 

His eyes widened, and his head snapped up.  _ “What?  _ How could you know?” 

 

“Jessamine,” she said. “What she said, in the courtyard. Before - well. She said you were a terrible Welshman, remember?” 

 

“Yes, and?” 

 

“She kept insisting he was in Idris, even when we know he can’t be. But he lived in Wales for years, alongside our family after you left. He knows it well, knows places to hide, grew up in the shadow of the mountain -” 

 

“You can’t mean - Cadair Idris?” 

 

“He’d find it funny,” she said. “A joke on you, and therefore on us.” Cecily met his eyes, for the first time since he’d come into the hall. “He’s taken her home.” 

 

* * *

 

It was hard to believe that it was only the evening of the same day. The day that had started with Will, throwing his hands into the fire. 

 

Cecily watched as Enclave members gathered in the drawing room, in the courtyard, in the parlor, clearing away Jessamine’s body and that of the dead Silent Brother and murmuring amongst themselves. 

 

In the drawing room, though, the loudest sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock. Tiran’s tail twitched in rhythm. Will, pained at being dragged from Jem’s room, sat in front of the fire with Charlotte as the Consul paced the length of the room and back. 

 

“This is madness,” he said. “Based on the fancy of a child.” 

 

“I am not a child,” snapped Cecily, but fell silent when Charlotte gave her a sharp look. Then she reconsidered her silence, despite a stifled sigh from across the room. “And another thing, my family  _ knew  _ Mortmain. He befriended my father, gave us Ravenscar Manor -” 

 

“There are other locations in the world with the name of Idris.” 

 

“None that Mortmain has already been connected with!” 

 

The Consul grimaced as if Cecily were an unpleasant bug that had flown onto his sleeve. “Very well. You may bring the issue of Wales up with the Council when they meet again in a fortnight -” 

 

“A fortnight?” Will jumped to his feet. “A  _ fortnight?  _ We don’t have that much time -” 

 

“The Magister wanted her unharmed,” said Charlotte, her voice soft - more to still him than out of any certainty. Will jerked his head towards her, mouth twisted. 

 

“He also plans to marry her, for some reason we still don’t know. Do you really think she wouldn’t hate being his bedwarmer more?” 

 

Cecily flinched. She hadn’t considered that. But the Consul was speaking again. 

 

“And the Devil take it if she is! One woman, who is not Nephilim,  _ cannot  _ be our priority!” 

 

“She is  _ my  _ priority!” 

 

Silence. Will’s chest heaved up and down. Issalinde clawed viciously at the carpet, and Charlotte looked as if she wanted to scoop Will into her arms - an old, aged sadness was etched into her face. 

 

“I thought,” said the Consul, after a long pause, “she was your  _ parabatai’s  _ fiancée . Not yours.” 

 

Will raised his chin. “If she is Jem’s  fiancée, I am honor-bound to protect her as if she were my own. That’s what it means to be  _ parabatai.”  _

 

“Such loyalty is commendable.” Consul Wayland scowled. “This is profitless conversation. We cannot go after her.” 

 

Charlotte’s face was dark. “I see we cannot force your cooperation. But bear in mind, I will put it on record that we warned you of this situation. If disaster does come and you did nothing, it will be on your head.” 

 

In the firelight, she looked far older than she was, and far more fragile. As though she was barely keeping herself together, Cecily thought. Charlotte had contained her tears the moment Jem collapsed, and hadn’t so much as let a quiver into her voice since then, but there was something shattered in her eyes. Seeing Jessamine die had badly broken her. 

 

The Consul, if he saw this, didn’t comment on it. Instead, he pulled his hood up over his head and turned to go. 

 

“That’s what it means to be Consul,” he said, and closed the door behind him. 

 

* * *

 

Will shifted in the chair that Henry had brought him, staring at Jem’s still face. He had been here for hours, since the moment Consul Wayland had left. 

 

Neither Jem nor Kasimela showed any signs of waking, but he would not leave. It was still, in the room, though he knew that the night had barely begun. No one would find easy sleep tonight, but wherever they were, they left Will alone.

 

The violin lay, abandoned, at the foot of the bed. The sword-cane was beside it, still bloody. Jem himself lay still and silent on the bed, all angles and hollows. 

 

How had Will not known? How hadn’t he seen, these past months? They had been the happiest he’d had since a child, but for all the hours spent with Jem and Tessa, he’d never noticed that he was dying faster and faster. 

 

Will’s throat and eyes burned. They had been burning steadily for hours, but no tears fell. He buried his face in the blanket again with a near-silent groan. Issalinde didn’t move from Mela’s side, but she did sigh. 

 

“Will.” 

 

He looked up, dull. It was Charlotte, standing in the doorway. 

 

“There’s someone here to see you.” She stepped out of the way, and was replaced by Magnus Bane, one eyebrow raised. Casimir, larger than usual, followed in his shadow. “He says you summoned him?” 

 

“I did summon him.” Will blinked, hard. Charlotte gave him a look of quiet sympathy, mixed with confusion, but merely brushed his hair out of his eyes and left the room, leaving them alone. 

 

“You came,” said Will, and then immediately regretted it. It sounded ridiculous and obvious - of course he did, otherwise why would he be here, taking off his gloves and looking down at Jem?

 

Magnus didn’t reply, at least not directly. “James Carstairs,” he said, as if to himself. 

 

“He’s dying.” It was the first time Will had managed to speak the words. 

 

“That much is clear.” It might have sounded cold -  _ should  _ have sounded cold - but there was sadness in Magnus’ voice. Worlds upon worlds of sadness. “I thought you believed he had a week, at least.” 

 

“It’s not just the drug. He lost so much blood.” 

 

Magnus nodded. He didn’t sit or kneel, only stood behind Will’s chair, a steady presence. “Is he in pain?” 

 

“I don’t know.” His eyes were still burning, his voice breaking. The tears still wouldn’t fall. 

 

“Every life is finite, Will. You knew, when you chose him, that he would die before you did.” Magnus’ words seemed to echo, as if Will were falling. Falling and falling, with no knowledge of when he would land, or how. “Did you bring me here because you hoped I could help him?” 

 

(Clipped, detached words, but Casimir’s scales were a deep, saddened blue. Darker than Issalinde’s eyes, darker than Jem’s eyelids.)

 

“I don’t know,” he said again, somewhat desperately. “I think - I think I thought you were someone who could understand.” 

 

“Understand what?” 

 

“You’ve lived so long. Seen so many die. So many that you loved. And yet you go on. How?” 

 

Magnus looked surprised, and then he ran a hand over his face, as if to school it back into a neutral expression. “You summoned me here - a warlock to the Institute - only to talk?” 

 

“I find you easy to talk to.” 

 

That coaxed a laugh from him, though not a happy one. “You are so young,” he murmured. “But then again, I do not think a Nephilim has ever called on me only to pass the watches of the night with him.” He leaned against the post of the bed, looking at Will through slitted golden eyes. “I will stay with you.”

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Will said, and now that he could talk, he seemed unable to stop himself. “Mortmain has taken Tessa. I must go after her. But I cannot leave him. What if he wakes to find me not here? He will think I left him willingly, while he was dying. I have never left him alone when he needed me. But if he knew, would he not want me to go after Tessa? Would he not want to go himself?” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I don’t know and it’s tearing me apart.” 

 

Magnus took a deep breath. Casimir, as tall now as a large dog, twitched his wings with some emotion Will couldn’t identify, but when Magnus spoke, it was gently. 

 

“Will. You asked me for wisdom, as someone who has lived many lifetimes and buried many loves. I can tell you that a life is the sum of what was lived in it. That whatever you may have sworn, that being here at the end of his life is not what is important. It was being here for every other moment. Since you met him, you have never not been by his side. Never not loved him. That is what matters.” 

 

“You really mean that.” Will knew that there was incredulity in his voice. “Why… why are you being so kind to me? I owe you a favor still.” 

 

“I am not so cold as to demand repayment from a brokenhearted man,” said Magnus, and clasped a warm hand over his shoulder. “I will promise you this instead - I will stay here and watch over your Jem for you. If he wakes before the end, I will tell him where you are. I have no  _ yin fen,  _ but if I can use magic to ease pain, I will do so.” 

 

At that, the tears did begin to fall. Will half-expected Magnus to back away, uncomfortable with the emotion, but he didn’t. He didn’t attempt to embrace Will or offer any additional comfort, either. He only kept his hand, steady over Will’s shoulder, as the minutes passed, until Will felt himself cried out and the hitched breaths smoothed out again with a great effort. 

 

_ “For whence had that former sorrow so easily penetrated to the quick, but that I had poured out my soul upon the dust, in loving one who must die?”  _ Magnus said as the tears slowed, almost to himself. Issalinde’s ears twitched. 

 

“What was that?” 

 

“Confessions of Saint Augustine,” said Magnus. “You asked how I survive so many deaths. There is no great secret. You endure what is unbearable, and you bear it. That is all.” When Will swallowed hard and nodded, he drew away. “I will leave you to say goodbye. I’ll be in the library.” 

 

Will didn’t have anything to say to that. He nodded again, silent, as Magnus left the room, and then turned his face to Jem. 

 

_ I must accept that this is the end. He will never look at me again with that look in his eyes. Never laugh with me, never speak to me or play for me or kiss me. You endure what is unbearable, and you bear it. That is all.  _

 

It didn’t seem real. No, it  _ couldn’t  _ be real. Issalinde had pressed herself up against Kasimela’s limp form, refusing to be drawn away. It couldn’t be real. He wouldn’t have to lose him. 

 

_ You endure what is unbearable, and you bear it.  _

 

Will reached out, put his hand gently over Jem’s cheek. Looked at the chain of the necklace he had bought for him when they were still children, looked at the slight, pained rise and fall of his chest.

 

_ “Atque en perpetuum, ave atque vale,”  _ he said.  _ Forever and ever, hail and farewell.  _

 

It was now or never. Will tried to turn away, only to feel something curl around his wrist. Jem’s eyelids fluttered, and he looked down to see his hand, tightly clinging. Next to him, Mela’s eyelids fluttered.

 

No. He was dreaming, a dream he wouldn’t have dared to hope for - 

 

“I am not dead yet,” murmured Jem, and Will collapsed back into the chair, his eyes welling up with further tears. He clung to Jem’s hand, determined that as long as he didn’t let go, perhaps this would be the truth. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to wake up.  

 

For a moment, they only stared at each other. Then Will leaned forward, pulling Jem up and into a close embrace. 

 

“James,” he said, into his hair.  _ “James.”  _

 

“I think I’ve been dreaming,” said Jem weakly, though he leaned into Will’s hold with no hesitation. Drawing comfort, drawing strength. Will had just forced his mind to accept that this would never happen again. Now that it was, all he could do was cling and whisper Jem’s name through a throat that didn’t seem to work. 

 

One last time, before the end. Will wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse. 

 

“James,” he said again. 

 

“You’re here,” said Jem, and leaned into him for a moment longer. Then he tilted his head with what strength he had. “Why are you here?” 

 

Will knew what he asked.  _ Why haven’t you gone after Tessa?  _ “I couldn’t leave you,” he said. “I  _ cannot  _ leave you. Not to face -” Once again, he couldn’t say the word. “Not to face this alone.” 

 

Jem’s silver eyes were sad, and frightened - it was the fear in them that hurt - but determined. “You cannot go where I am going. Nor do I want you to. But you can go after her. I know - I know how much it pains you not to be at her side, now. As much as it pains me,” his breath rattled as he spoke. “… Please.” 

 

Will shook his head, almost frantically. Jem was speaking the truth, but - but - 

 

“Take my hands, Will?” 

 

He did so, imagining that he felt a flicker of pain in his chest, over the  _ parabatai  _ rune. As if it knew what he pretended not to, knew how much pain was coming. A pain he didn’t know if he could bear.  _ Jem is my great sin,  _ he’d told Magnus once. This, he supposed, was the punishment. 

 

“Will,” said Jem, drawing him out of his thoughts with a jolt. The way he said his name was horribly, agonizingly final. “For years I’ve tried to give you what you couldn’t give yourself.” 

 

“And what’s that?” Trying for levity. Failing. Always, always failing. His fingers tightened over Jem’s, which were so very fragile, so very cold.

 

“Faith,” said Jem. “That you were better than you thought you were. Forgiveness, that you need not always punish yourself. I always loved you, Will, no matter what you did.” The past tense cut through him, drawing a sob from his chest. Jem’s fingers ran over his, a gesture of comfort. Ever understanding. “I love you still. But now I need you to do what I cannot do for myself. Be my eyes when I’ve lost mine, my hands when I have none. My heart, when mine has stopped beating.” 

 

“No,” said Will, frantic. “No, no, no. I won’t be those things. Your heart will continue to beat.”  _ It has to.  _

 

“But if not, Will -” 

 

“If I could tear myself in half, that I could stay here  _ and  _ go after Tessa -” 

 

“Half of you would be no good to either of us,” said Jem. “Will, I trust you. I trust you to find her, because you love her, just as much as I do. We’re both lost without her, and you know it.” 

 

“I can’t leave you to die alone,” whispered Will, but he knew, deep inside, that he was beaten.

 

“I am not alone,” said Jem, and his hand brushed over Will’s heart, the rune inked into his skin. It took effort, his arm shaking. “Wherever we are, we are as one.” 

 

When he leaned up to kiss him, Will nearly broke. He could not think of this as a last kiss, as a goodbye, but it was one nevertheless, and somewhere deep within himself, he knew it. Issalinde pressed into Jem’s side as they broke apart, and Mela pushed her head into Will’s hand. He shivered, wishing that they would never let go. That they would keep each other’s souls, inextricably entwined, forever. 

 

But they were missing another. Another soul, another love. And that was why Will had to leave. 

 

He found his voice, after another moment. “If there is a life after this one,” he said, “let me meet you in it, James Carstairs.” 

 

“There will be other lives.” Jem had only drawn back an inch or so, and his forehead still rested on Will’s. His breaths came short and sharp. “When we rise or fall, we do it together.” 

 

“Well. Since you’re so certain of another life, I hope I don’t make as colossal a mess of it as I did this one.” 

 

One more brush of lips. A true finality, now, and Jem smiled the smile that, even on Will’s worst days, had always eased his mind, warmed his heart. “There is hope for you yet, William Herondale.” 

 

He couldn’t say anything else. 

 

He couldn’t say  _ goodbye  _ and keep from shattering completely. 

 

So Will let his hands slip out of Jem’s and fled. 


	9. The Homeliest Adorned

Will had learned how to care for horses from his father. They hadn’t owned any, at the time, but there had been a neighbor with an old, bad-tempered pony, and Edmund Herondale had spent hours with all three of his children, making sure they knew how to curry, saddle, and shoe a horse.  _ You never know when you might need it,  _ he’d said. 

 

Will was grateful for it now, as he stepped into Balios’ stall - the faster of the Institute’s two - and lifted a saddle from the corner. He didn’t need to focus, didn’t need to think. Preparing for the journey was second nature. He didn’t have much to bring - a change of gear, his father’s knife as well as the one Jem had offered him so many years ago, a bit of money. It barely filled one saddlebag, but he strapped it to Balios’ side anyway. Issalinde leapt up to the front of the saddle, and he leaned over to bury his face in her fur.  

 

It was only for a moment, but he was still standing like that, eyes closed, when a voice came from behind him. 

 

“You’re going to Cadair Idris yourself, aren’t you.” 

 

He turned, not particularly surprised to see his sister standing there. She was wearing the cloak she’d come to the Institute in, the hood pushed back to reveal her scowling face and Tiran on her shoulders, and her arms were crossed.

 

“I am,” said Will. His voice was rough. 

 

“Does he know?” There was no need to say a name. 

 

“He sent me.” 

 

“Take me with you.” It wasn’t a request. 

 

“No.” 

 

“If you don’t,” Cecily said, eyes burning with determination, “I will scream until the house wakes up and Charlotte and Henry and the Lightwoods come to stop you.” 

 

Will didn’t bother saying that she wouldn’t. They both knew she would. For a moment, he thought of all the horrible things he could say, he was expected to say. He’d grown up with her- he knew what to say to hurt, where to twist the knife, how to make her leave in tears. 

 

Instead of saying any of those things, he shook his head. “Cecily,” he said. “Please. I’m terrified for Tessa. I’m losing Jem. I can’t be terrified for you too and do what has to be done. Please, for my sake, stay here.” 

 

Cecily, silent, stared at him. For once, she seemed at a loss for words. They stood, staring at each other, and Will could feel time slipping away, but he didn’t move. 

 

Finally, she spoke. “If you will not let me go with you,” she said, “promise me you will come back, this time.” 

 

“I -” he hesitated. 

 

_ “Promise me."   _ In Welsh, their childhood language.  _ “You left us alone once because you wanted to save someone you loved.”  _ Never mind that that someone had been her.  _ “I’m tired of it.” _

 

“If there’s any possible way, I will come back. I promise.” When she didn’t seem satisfied, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “And I’ll write a letter. To Mother and Father. I can promise that much.” 

 

“If you do come back, you will return to Mother and Father with me and look them in the eyes and tell them why you left and that you don’t blame them and that you love them.” When Will winced, Cecily and Tiran both glared at him. Cecily’s eyes were watery, he realized with a slight pang. “You don’t have to go home to stay. I don’t think either of us will. But you have to see them.” 

 

“Agreed.” 

 

Without her anger, his sister looked smaller than ever. 

 

Will didn’t have anything to break the silence with, so he led Balios out of the stall and into the night. Behind him, Cecily stepped back. 

 

_ “Byddaf yn dy golli di,”  _ she said.  _ I’ll miss you.  _

 

_ “And I you.”  _ Then he swung himself up into the saddle behind Issalinde, bent his head against the wind, and rode out of the gates. 

 

* * *

 

Tessa awoke out of dreams she didn’t care to remember, into a reality she didn’t care to be in. She was lying on her side on a rough carriage seat, her hair loose and covering her face in a limp curtain. Across from her sat a familiar figure, wrapped almost entirely in a black traveling cloak and hood. 

 

Her stomach dropped, and she sat up all at once. Mrs. Black - for that was who it had to be - held a familiar small cage, in which Chalivan was huddled, glaring. He hadn’t tried to break out, or shift to slip through the bars - but of course. Mrs. Black didn’t know that they’d become comfortable changing shape. Better to keep her oblivious for as long as possible. When she’d been kept in the Dark House, the idea had been unimaginable. 

 

Tessa was very different from who she’d been when she was kept in the Dark House. 

 

“Not going to be sick, are you?” Asked Mrs. Black in a rasping voice. “Chloroform has that effect.” 

 

Tessa shook her head, still finding her voice. What should she do? Fight? Scream? Wait? She looked around instead, trying to get her bearings. The inside of the carriage was dim enough that it must have been night, though the night of which day she couldn’t have said. Still, there was some moonlight, which lit up what little of Mrs. Black’s face she could see under the hood. 

 

It was gray and sunken, the lips hanging open, eyes veined with black. Her daemon was a moth, with eyes on its wings, seeming to have pressed itself into the side of her cheek. Tessa winced. 

 

“Where are we going?” she asked, and Mrs. Black scoffed. 

 

“Where do you think, daft girl?” 

 

To Mortmain, then. Her heart sped, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, trying to use her skirt to hide her hands from view as she pulled at the handle of the door. It didn’t budge.

 

“Don’t bother,” said Mrs. Black, and shook the cage. Chali hit the bars with a small sound of pain, and Tessa flinched back, throat closing. “You can’t run far. Even if you tried, I could catch you easily. A gift from the Magister.” 

 

Tessa wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but months of living in the Dark House had taught her not to ask. It was unnerving, how fast it all came back. She didn’t like it. 

 

So she forced past the fear and opened her mouth. “Is that why you still work for him? He doesn’t care about you.” 

 

“He doesn’t have to.” Her question hadn’t caused a reaction. “He has what I want.”

 

“He sent Will and Jem to murder you and your sister as a diversion.” 

 

That was the wrong thing to say. Not to Mrs. Black, but the mention of them sent panic through her veins, set Chali fluttering in the tiny amount of space he had. Will and Jem. They had been fighting. She hadn’t seen the end. Surely they were - surely she’d  _ know,  _ if they were -  

 

She wanted nothing more than to be back in the Institute with them, safe. 

 

Mrs. Black seemed oblivious to her thoughts - a small blessing. “He also gave me a body.” She lowered her hood, and Tessa was jerked violently out of her reverie. Mrs. Black’s head ended in an abrupt slash, the skin drooping down over a steel neck. Whatever decay had happened while she was dead had clearly not been undone, as it was gray and half-rotted. The rest of her was an automaton’s body, shining metal and whirring gears. 

 

Tessa turned her face away without a word and wondered if the same fate awaited her. 

 

* * *

 

“What do you mean,” said Charlotte, her voice dangerously still, “he’s gone off to Wales alone?” 

 

Magnus raised one eyebrow and didn’t deign to answer, making Raimond growl a low note. Charlotte didn’t bother to hush him. “How could you have done something so - so -” 

 

He didn’t let her finish that sentence, or suggest any adjectives, though it was sure to be amusing if he did. After seeing Will’s state, he wasn’t in much of a mood for lightness. “It is not my responsibility now, nor will it ever be, to manage wayward Nephilim, Charlotte Branwell.” 

 

She didn’t reply, only dropping her head into her hands. She had found him asleep in the library and woken him in a panic, demanding to know if he’d seen Will. When he explained, she had gone pale, stalked out, and gathered everyone she could find before coming back in. Now Gabriel, Gideon, Henry, and Cecily were gathered around, looking from Magnus to Charlotte. Finally, the latter lifted her head and blinked repeatedly. 

 

“I didn’t think he’d leave Jem,” she said. “What will we tell him when he wakes -” 

 

_ If he wakes, _ thought Magnus, though he was wise enough not to say it. 

 

“Jem knows,” interrupted Cecily. She was staring at the floor, and scowled when everyone looked to her. “Don’t look at me like that! Will’s choices are his own.” She nudged Tiran with her foot, mouth twisting still further when Charlotte crossed the room to her in a few steps, placing her hands on her shoulders. 

 

“Will cannot fight Mortmain alone. It’s beyond foolish, he’ll get himself killed. Which road did he take?” 

 

“If he’d wanted help, he wouldn’t have ridden off in the middle of the night without telling anyone -” 

 

“Because William Herondale is known for his good decision-making and forethought,” muttered Gabriel. Cecily glared at him again, ducking free of Charlotte, but he only shrugged. “That being said, he’s not riding off to war. He’s trying to save Tessa. If we go after him, we’ll only draw more attention and compromise the whole thing-”

 

“If we don’t go after him and he’s caught, he’s walking into a slaughter,” said Gideon.  

 

Charlotte made a sharp gesture, effectively silencing them. Magnus watched with some admiration as silence fell - she was warring with herself, Raimond’s hackles raised. Finally, she spoke, almost begrudgingly. 

 

“If we go after him, we’re risking exposing him. We can’t help him now, so we will help Jem. Seek a cure, and if he wakes, do whatever we can.” 

 

No one argued. There was a fragile strength to Charlotte, Magnus thought, that they were all a little afraid to break. 

 

* * *

 

It was hours before Tessa spoke again. Or, she thought it was - there was nothing to break up the passage of time, no falter in the mechanical horses’ gait, nothing but the slow lightening of the sky. “You still don’t know,” she said, voice rough from silence, “that he will give you anything more than that body. More than metal.” 

 

“Oh, but he will,” said Mrs. Black, lips twitching upward in a grotesque attempt at a smile. “He’ll have the power to do so, my dear, once you’re with him.” 

 

“I don’t -” 

 

She continued on as if there had been no interruption. “As it is, this was the best he could do. Still, it’s quite more durable than my previous body, isn’t it?” She looked down at her metal hands and clenched one into a fist. “And so well-bound to me. That took quite a bit of blood magic, you know. The Magister had Nathaniel kill at least three mundanes. Lives for a life.” 

 

If she was expecting an outward reaction from Tessa, she didn’t get it - though Tessa’s thoughts did dart to Nate’s words in the warehouse, her chest tightening uncomfortably.  _ You don’t know everything I’ve done, Tessie.  _ Still, she refused to show sadness, or anger. She wasn’t the same person who had wept for her brother under the Sisters’ tortures. 

 

“Well. Magic is magic, and the Magister will explain it to you, I’m sure.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

A slow turn of Mrs. Black’s head - always a sign of danger. “Why what?” 

 

“Why would he explain it to me? What difference does it make if I know how to make automatons? If I’m to be forced to marry him, what does it matter?” There was no response. Angry, Tessa wrenched again at the door. It was locked, of course, but there was some give. “I’m already engaged,” she said, both to be contrary and as a distraction. 

 

“Yes, to James Carstairs. So I’ve heard. But he’ll be dead within the week, if not sooner. The Magister’s blocked all the shipments of  _ yin fen.  _ Suppose you should have thought of that before you fell in love with an addict. So he’ll hardly be coming to rescue you.” 

 

Tessa ignored this, staring out the window. It was nearly sunrise - in the slight light, she could see that they were on a twisting road at the top of a ravine that could be six feet deep or six hundred. 

 

Well. She didn’t have time to waste, then. She thought herself back to the Dark House, to her many desperate - and failed - escape attempts, and drew on the core of strength she remembered. 

 

“I suppose not,” she said, and threw herself at the door with all the force she had. Chali, making himself small, slipped through the bars before becoming a harbor seal, hundreds of pounds of smooth skin and fat, crashing into the lock. 

 

It broke with a snap, and Tessa fell out and over the edge into the ravine without so much as a scream. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey - so I could have sworn I wasn't going to come back to this. I think it felt _too_ canon compliant in a way, with so much of the dialogue lifted, or only slightly changed, or that it didn't seem creative enough. That, and life just got in the way. 
> 
> But then, there's still value in it for all of that, and I really do enjoy writing it. 
> 
> So yes. Here I am, back again. I know it's been months - hopefully you can forgive me.


	10. 'Twere Suddenly Confirmed

 

It was not, Tessa realized, a short fall. 

 

Behind her, she heard Mrs. Black screaming at the driver to stop. Below her - far, far,  _ far  _ below her - there was a stream twisting around jagged rocks. It would kill her to land on them, would probably kill her regardless of where she landed, and for a moment, she froze in mindless panic, wind rushing past her ears. 

 

Then Chali transformed again, into a great, white bird - an albatross. His wings opened, his beak gripping the back of her dress, in an attempt to slow them, and for a moment, Tessa thought it might possibly work. She could feel the strain under his wings, but they slowed, ever so slightly. 

 

It wasn’t enough. The ground was approaching too fast - she’d never fallen for this long before, her chest and stomach seemingly weightless. There was a sharp jerk at her throat, which she mistook for an extension of that feeling, before she looked again. 

 

Her angel necklace had pulled itself upwards, as if someone was tugging at it. A metallic blur, and then somehow it was the size of a human, metal wings beating and surrounding her, metal arms wrapped around her torso. Frozen in shocked fear, Tessa stared up into its face - blank and expressionless as ever - and wondered if she was already dead. 

 

But while the ground was still growing closer, it was doing so slowly, slowly enough that she could see the individual rocks and the light of the sunrise on the water. She landed half in the stream, half on the shore, and instinctively she reached up as if to break the angel’s fall. But it was already shrinking, so that by the time it hit the ground beside her, it was the same as it had always been. 

 

The water on her skirt was cold. Tessa shivered, and once she started shivering, she couldn’t make herself stop, her teeth chattering viciously. Surely it wasn’t such a shock? She’d seen magic before. There was nothing to be afraid of. The angel had protected her before, and never harmed her, and its similarities to Mortmain’s automatons were entirely coincidental. 

 

She should have been dead. She wanted to have imagined the entire thing. She  _ had  _ imagined it, she had clearly imagined it, but here she was, alive and unhurt.

 

“We’re all right,” said Chali, though he was shaking nearly as badly. He huddled into her side for comfort, and it  _ was  _ comforting, the touch of something that wasn’t metal. Then he looked up, and she followed his gaze. 

 

The carriage was nowhere to be seen, which was less than promising. They had to move. 

 

Tessa forced herself to her feet. With one more nervous glance at the angel necklace, she steeled herself, snatched it up, and replaced it around her neck. It felt… odd, there, which didn’t surprise her. 

 

Then she realized that it wasn’t the necklace itself - it was the lack of the jade pendant Jem had given her. She froze, and in that moment came closer to tears than she had in hours. How could she have  _ lost  _ it? It had likely happened on her way out of the carriage, or the fall, and she didn’t have time to look for it. 

 

It had belonged to Jem’s parents. Like the angel necklace, she only took it off to bathe or sleep, and sometimes not even then. Her eyesight blurred, but she knew if she started to cry, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

 

So, with an angry swipe of her hand under her eyes, Tessa started to make her way along the ravine. 

 

* * *

 

 

Charlotte sat at Jem’s bedside, in Will’s place, and watched over him. Raimond, sadness in his eyes, rested curled in her lap, over the slight swell of her belly. There were certainly other things to be done - Magnus and Henry were in the crypt, working on some half-mad idea of a portal. Gabriel had gone with Cecily to look for medicines to strengthen, that might work where runes didn’t. 

 

But Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to leave him.

 

When she had been a child, she’d seen mundane girls in London’s slums die of consumption. It had made them beautiful, before it killed - pale and slender and flushed with red. Jem had that fever, now, and he tossed and turned without waking. Kasimela, in contrast, slept without so much as a twitch, to all appearances already dead. 

 

Jem had, in fact, awoken, several times; but he was delirious, calling for his mother, his father, and then later, for Tessa and Will. Often he spoke in Mandarin that she didn’t understand, so she merely took his hand and brushed his hair from his face, and told him that she was there, that she would look after him.

 

After what felt like hours, he jolted, and sat up, or tried to, before falling back down onto the pillows. His eyelids fluttered open. “Will?” 

 

“No,” said Charlotte, gently. “It’s me.” 

 

For a moment, his eyes seemed to clear, and her heart leapt. “Charlotte. Of course. I -” A shuddering breath, a rasped cough. “I sent Will away.” 

 

“He’s gone after Tessa.” She wasn’t sure if this would be a comfort, but she said it nevertheless, fingers tightening on the arm of her chair. 

 

“Good. That’s… good.” His eyes remained sharper, this time, and she laid a hand on his forehead. Still burning, but he seemed cognizant of where he was, now, and when. “Charlotte. Is there any more?” 

 

She knew what he asked, and silently shook her head. Jem looked down, unsurprised, and rasped out another cough, bloodying his lips. He raised his hand - shaking violently, but without too much effort - and wiped them clean. The blood looked almost black against his too-pale skin. 

 

“You must be strong,” said Charlotte, as Raimond sniffed at Mela nervously, in an attempt to stir her. “They’re working now, looking for something to help.” 

 

“What strength I have is yours,” he murmured, somewhat cryptically, and met her eyes again. “Did you - did you win?” 

 

“Win?” 

 

“The argument with Henry. Over what to call your child.” 

 

“Oh.” It was such a shift in tone that she had trouble, for a moment, keeping her voice light. “No, not yet. He keeps insisting on Buford. I told him that’s ridiculous.” 

 

“You’ll win,” said Jem, with a half-smile. “You always do.” He looked as if he wanted to roll over to face her properly, but thought better of it. “That is a regret, though.” He still smiled, though there was more sadness in it than any humor. “I would have liked to see the baby.” 

 

It was a simple thing to say, but it lodged in Charlotte’s heart, sending tears down her cheeks. “You cannot give up,” she said, and her voice was small and broken. “When they brought you here, they told me you had a year or two to live. You’ve survived almost eight. Please, just live a few more days - a few more days, for me -” 

 

Her voice trailed off into silence. There was no guarantee that a few more days would change anything, would find a cure, would see Will back with Tessa. A few more days might mean nothing at all. 

 

Jem gave Charlotte a long look, and gathered his strength to speak. One of Kasimela’s ears twitched upward, and she lifted her head to push it into his hand. 

 

“I lived for you,” he said. “And then I lived for Will, and then Tessa, and then for myself, because I wanted to be with them. But I cannot live for other people forever.” His chest rose and fell rapidly, forcing in the breath for more words. “No one can say I went easily. I love you, Charlotte. If you ask me to, if you say you need me, I will stay as long as I can for you, and go down fighting death until I’m worn down to nothing. I already have. But it would not be my choice.” 

 

Charlotte’s eyes blurred with further tears, but she nodded. The effort of speaking for so long sent Jem into another cough, and his eyes fluttered closed again, breathing shallow, as he slipped back into sleep. 

 

Perhaps he would wake again. Perhaps not. 

 

Either way, she thought, this was goodbye. 

 

* * *

 

Will was a day and a half, and God only knew how many miles, out of London when he next stopped to let Balios rest. He’d heard of cavalries who rode horses until they died, but even if he’d been tempted towards cruelty for the sake of speed, he knew that losing his horse would slow him more. And even so, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

 

So he waited at the edge of the mountain road, making sure the horse could catch his breath. It was afternoon - he’d need to find somewhere to stay the night, an inn or something similar. Though that involved finding a town - he’d spent the past night sleeping fitfully in someone’s stable. 

 

It was raining, turning the already dangerous path to even more dangerous mud, and Will scowled, pulling his collar up. As he did, he turned his head to the side, and his eye caught a glint of green and gold, amid the rocks at the edge of the road, before they descended into a steep ravine.

 

Dropping the reins, he ran to it. The chain had broken, caught on a rock and trod into the dirt, but the pendant itself was in one piece, and familiar enough that it caught at his heart. Circular jade, with characters around the edge. Jem’s gift to Tessa. 

 

_ Like bread crumbs in the forest,  _ he thought, because it was better than thinking of the alternative, knowing that Tessa would never willingly part with it. Cleaning the mud from its surface, he slipped it into his pocket, and climbed back into the saddle. 

 

He couldn’t be far behind them now. 

 

* * *

 

It was raining. It had been raining for hours, and Tessa had found no town, no other person, and no sign of where she was. 

 

She had, however, found an old, empty cottage, standing alone among the rocks. It was abandoned, clearly, by the moss that grew over the floor and the cracked, broken windows, but some furniture remained, and the roof was in one piece. An old, mildewed patchwork blanket lay over a broken chair.

 

“It’s lucky,” said Chalivan. Tessa could only nod, pulling the blanket around herself in an effort to quell the shaking. Her clothes were soaked, but she had nothing else to wear while she dried them, and the thought of being naked here, where she knew nothing, with Mrs. Black still after her, was unnerving. She could cling to the hope that she would be presumed dead in the fall, but then -  _ if anyone knows what the angel can do, it’s Mortmain.  _

 

Sitting still, while a relief to her shivering limbs, did nothing for her mind. She missed the Institute, fiercely and desperately. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious, how much  _ yin fen  _ was left of their tiny supply. She didn’t know if Will or Jem, or Charlotte, Cecily, Henry, Jessamine - or even the Lightwoods - had been injured in the battle. 

 

_ Please,  _ she thought, cupping a hand over Chali, who had become a goldfinch again.  _ Please, let them be all right. Don’t let anything happen to them.  _ And for a while, she dozed, not daring quite to sleep, but not fully awake. It was more as if her thoughts swirled, half-dreams, odd and frightening visions of Will, weeping as if he was dying, with blood over his heart. 

 

She wasn’t sure how long it had been when a noise broke her out of her stupor - a scraping, familiar sound, the sound of an automaton. In an instant, she was on her feet, terror twisting inside of her. Run? She couldn’t outrun them. 

 

No. Automatons didn’t have minds. They could be fooled.

 

The quilt was patchwork, the sort of thing that would have been made by whoever had lived here. She reached into it, desperately seeking a soul, a spark of life. For a moment, she found nothing, but - there. As quickly as she could, she pulled it towards her, until her dress hung loose on a withered old woman’s form, her eyes looked out from someone else's face. She could only hope the mud on her skirts hid their color and design. 

 

Chali, next to her, became a little dog, much like Raimond. Encouragement, a reminder that Tessa could be like Charlotte, Charlotte who was so strong, so unafraid. Through filmy eyes, Tessa cast around for a weapon of some kind, and grabbed up a small, curved piece of metal. 

 

_ It’s a frog pick, silly girl,  _ said the old woman in her mind.  _ For horse’s hooves. My Ilarion was a horse, not a dog, don't you know.  _

 

Tessa didn’t bother to reply, didn't even stop to acknowledge her, pulling the quilt over her shoulders like a shawl as the scratching sound came again from the door. Then she pulled it open. 

 

An automaton stood on the threshold, whirring. Through her new body’s eyes, it was a blur of gray and silver, indistinct, and she brandished the frog pick. “Who are you?” Her voice was quavery. “What do you want? What are you doing on my property?” 

 

“What’s going on here?” And with that voice, Tessa’s heart sank. An automaton could be fooled, yes, but Mrs. Black was sure to notice the moss on the floor, at the very least. There was only so much age would explain away. “What have you found?” 

 

Tessa, as quickly as her knees would let her, slipped through the door, pushing it nearly shut behind her. She stood on the front step, and turned to face the blur from which Mrs. Black’s voice had emanated. “What’s going on here? I should ask you that!” She blinked hard. “I’ve nothing worth stealing, so get out of here, and take your friend -” 

 

“We’re looking for a woman. Brown hair, finely dressed, seeming lost. Her husband is looking for her.” Mrs. Black didn’t move. “Have you seen anyone?” 

 

“A likely story. Get out, go on.” Tessa called on the innate surliness of the old woman. “Trying to break into decent folks’ houses, go on.” 

 

For a moment, she believed it had worked. There was a beat of silence, in which they stared at each other. Then Mrs. Black spoke again, and there was a quaver of amusement in it. 

 

“What a lovely necklace you wear, old woman.” 

 

Tessa’s hand darted to her neck, but it was too late. The angel had been there all along, ticking quietly, a dead giveaway. She turned, half-hoping to run, but Mrs. Black only laughed. 

 

“Take her,” she said, amused. "You don't need to be gentle about it, this time." The automaton reached out, a metal hand around her neck in a sharp band of pain, and the world swirled for a long few moments before going black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tessa's peril aside, I think one of the saddest lines in this book (of which there are many) is Jem's "I would have liked to see the baby." It kills me every time I remember it. 
> 
> This chapter is shorter, because in the next one Will feels the parabatai bond break, and that needs its own chapter, I think.


	11. Conversion of the Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for character death, and grief.

Will was lucky. There was a Downworld waypoint that he knew of, called the Green Man Inn, along the road he was taking. He’d hoped, in fact, to reach it by nightfall, and despite the rain, it was only a few hours past sunset when he arrived. The golden glow from its door looked welcoming. 

 

Though if he were honest with himself, a lone Nephilim might not be treated with as much hospitality as he'd like. 

 

Still. It was better than sleeping in another stable. Issalinde’s fur was damp and bedraggled, and she looked pleadingly from Will to the door and the promise of a warm fire and a bath. He couldn’t dredge up a smile, but he did run a hand over her back.

 

A half-fae boy smirked up at him from the step, seemingly uncaring of the weather. His daemon lurked under the stairs, only a pair of glowing eyes. “Don’t see many of your lot around here.”

 

“Well, now you’ve seen one more.” Will slid from the saddle, half-hesitating when the boy reached to take Balios’ bridle. He handed it over without a word, however, and nodded his thanks before walking into the common room.

 

There was a fire burning at the end of it, blessedly hot, warmer than Will had been in days. He received a few stares, from a warlock woman with entirely black eyes, and a group of werewolves huddled by the hearth, but the landlord didn’t bat an eye, only asking the usual questions. Did Will want a bath (he did) and bran mash for his horse (he did) and a private meal (he did not.) As they spoke, he became aware of a few of the werewolves getting to their feet.

 

“Easy,” said a figure from in front of the fire, as the landlord took Will’s money and left with it. “I know him.”

 

“Know him?” One of the others muttered. “Friend of yours, Scott?”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to call him that.” Heart sinking, Will turned to look Woolsey Scott in the eyes. He didn’t wear his monocle, for once, and it made him look far more serious. The burn Will had left on his face from their fight in London was nearly healed, but still visible. “But it’s interesting that he’s _here_ , of all places.”

 

“Hello, Mr. Scott,” said Will, trying not to tense. “I could say the same of you.”

 

There was a beat of silence, and then Issalinde sneezed. Woolsey’s expression changed to a flash of amusement. “I’m not going to pick a fight with Magnus’ blue-eyed boy unless he picks a fight with me, so you can relax.” Almost absentmindedly, he rolled a cigar between his fingers without lighting it. “Go take a bath. You’re soaked through, and you’re dripping on the floor. It’s not a good look on you.”

 

Biting his tongue against the patronizing tone, Will turned without a goodbye and stalked up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

He did return to the common room, a few hours later, clean and in dry clothes and having forced down a meal he barely remembered. Very deliberately refusing to look at Woolsey, he scrounged up some paper from somewhere and scrawled a few lines on it.

 

_Charlotte:_

 

_I am sorry for leaving the Institute without warning. I ask for your forgiveness, but that’s not the point of this letter._

_I found Tessa’s jade necklace by the side of the road. That in itself is proof enough - Mortmain is taking her to Cadair Idris. Please write to the Consul and tell him to send a force to the mountain there._

 

_Will_

 

After paying the landlord another half-crown to make sure it would be sent the next morning, he went to sit at a table, not too close to the fire, but not far enough that it would seem he was avoiding Woolsey.

 

He _was_ avoiding Woolsey, but that hardly mattered. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep for some time, and he already longed to be back on the road, but Balios wouldn’t be able to handle a full night’s ride after barely any rest. If he could get through this one night without speaking to him at all, so much the better.

 

Will was drinking a glass of wine, wondering if he should try to force it down quickly to help him sleep, when the sharp, stabbing pain shot through his chest.

 

It felt like being shot with an arrow. Issalinde was frozen, completely immobile, and his wineglass fell to the floor and shattered.

 

People were staring. The landlord was saying something, and he should be listening, but the pain was too much to think through, almost too much to breathe through. What was happening to him? Without an explanation, Will staggered to his feet, pushing his way out into the courtyard as Issalinde followed. He needed air. He needed to breathe.

 

There was a tightness in his chest, one he felt sometimes if he was too far, physically, from Jem. It had been easy to ignore, until now. Now it felt as if it were a cord pulled tight around his heart, strangling him. He leaned up against the wall of the inn, heedless of the rain, and fought to breathe - he’d never felt anything like this, was it the distance, the -

 

The cord snapped.

 

Suddenly, Issalinde was screaming, loud and in more pain than he’d ever heard her, and Will fell to his knees like a puppet with cut strings, his hands hitting the muddy ground with a sharp burn. He forced himself to his feet again, as if trying to outrun it, and stumbled up against the wall of the stables.

 

He felt… empty. Why did he feel so empty? He was crying, he noticed with a dull surprise, tears running involuntarily down his cheeks. He plunged his hands into a trough of water, catching a glimpse of his reflection. Pale, paler than death, with a spreading red stain on his white shirt, over his heart.

 

He jerked the shirt open. There wasn’t much light still coming from the inn, but it was enough to see that his _parabatai_ rune, over his heart, was bleeding. As he watched, it faded from the black it had always been into a pale silver scar.

 

The bond was broken.

 

Jem was dead.

 

Will didn’t know how long he sat, after that, curled up as if to somehow protect himself, weeping. He thought he screamed, once, a wordless, hoarse shout that only seemed to echo his pain back to him. It didn’t really matter.

 

Issalinde was no comfort. He didn’t _want_ Issalinde’s comfort. He wanted Mela, soft fur pressed into his hand, he wanted Jem’s quiet voice telling him that if he kept crying in the rain Charlotte might think he actually meant it, he wanted -

 

He didn’t get any of it. Instead, he got a rough hand on his collar, hauling him to his feet and shoving him against the stable wall.

 

“This is him, then?”

 

Unfamiliar voice. Growling and angry. Will stopped crying.

 

“Get your hands off me,” he said, hoarse but icy cold. There were three of them - werewolves from inside, wolf daemons helping to form a loose circle around him. “You know it’s forbidden to touch me unprovoked.”

 

“Unprovoked, he says,” said the one who had him by the shirt. Will’s blood was on his hand, now. He slammed him back into the wall, and it might have hurt, if this had been ordinary circumstances. Even the pain from Will’s rune had faded, and he wanted to laugh at these fools who thought they could hurt him. “If it wasn’t for you, Mortmain wouldn’t have been after us with his filthy drugs and dirty lies. I’d say that’s provoked.”

 

Will just stared at him. “Dirty drugs _and_ filthy lies,” he said, cruel sharpness flashing back to the surface. “How unsanitary. Though I suppose you lot of filthy dogs are used to it, aren’t you?”

 

He didn’t get the reaction he was hoping for - namely, a punch to the face. Only a few spit words. “You’ll want to be a bit more respectful, Nephilim.”

 

“No,” said Will. “I really, _really_ don’t.”

 

And he raised his fist, hard, and shattered the bone in the arm holding him. The werewolf screamed, stumbling back, and another one reached up to try to catch him by the neck as one of the daemons bit Issalinde’s shoulder. He ducked as she yowled in pain, flailing her paws to try to break free, and one of the werewolves landed a blow to Will’s stomach. He doubled over, gasping.

 

Once the breath came back to his lungs, he realized he was laughing. “Come and kill me,” he said, “if you like. You’ll have to do better than that.”  

 

Perhaps they hadn’t come out to kill him. More likely they only wanted to rough him up, get some sense of vengeance for their dead friends. The one with the broken arm spat on the ground at his feet before reaching for a knife with his left hand, and Will decided it didn’t much matter. He couldn’t die. He wouldn’t abandon Tessa to whatever Mortmain had planned for her just because Jem was -

 

Was -

 

Was gone.

 

Still. That didn't mean he had to care if he was hurt. With a quick motion, Will grappled for the knife. For a moment, he thought he would win, but then other hands had grabbed him, were trying to shove him back. He went down hard, hitting his head on the cobblestones in the courtyard, and came up still laughing, almost hysterically - the momentum of his fall had wrenched the knife from his assailant’s hand, nicking his wrist. Will used the hilt as a bludgeon, striking out for the second werewolf’s temple, missing a few times before the blow landed correctly and sent him down like a stone.

 

 _“What_ is going on here?” A new voice. Familiar, and commanding in a way Will hadn’t heard it before. “Stop this, _now.”_

 

Will didn’t let it distract him, driving the knife up towards the third man’s eyes - but he had disengaged, and was running. Dizzy, spots swimming in his vision, Will turned to see Woolsey Scott, silhouetted in the light from the inn’s door. The only remaining member of his pack flinched, inclining his head in deference, his daemon’s tail between its legs.

 

Will didn’t care that the fight was over. In fact, he didn’t want the fight to be over. He sprang for the man’s shoulders, ignoring his whimper of pain when his arm was jostled, and held the knife to his throat, pinning him against his chest.

 

“Come any closer,” he said to Woolsey around heaving breaths, “and I’ll cut his throat.”

 

Woolsey, only a few steps away now, stopped, raising one eyebrow. “When I gave the order to stop, that didn’t exclude you, William Herondale.”

 

“But _I don’t have to listen to you!”_ Will shouted. “I was winning! _Winning!”_ He jerked his chin towards the unconscious form at their feet. “They attacked me, unprovoked. I am owed their blood, and I _will_ have it!”

 

For a moment, he didn’t recognize his own voice.

 

Woolsey shook his head, giving him the same piercing gaze that seemed to read him all too well. “What would you do with his life, if you took it? You don’t care about one werewolf. Let him go.”

 

A silent stalemate. Finally, Will lowered the knife, hands shaking. Woolsey gestured to his packmate, who limped past him and back into the inn as Will threw the knife down at Woolsey’s feet.

 

“Take this back. Cowards, trying to fight me three to one.”

 

“They are young, and impetuous, and they have lost many that they blame you for.” Pale eyes, cold and detached, ran over Will, taking in his bloodied shirt, his tearstained face. “I take it your Jem Carstairs is dead, then.”

 

Will flinched as if he’d been punched, taking an involuntary step back. He wasn’t ready to hear the words, could never have been ready. Issalinde, limping on her bitten shoulder, let out a broken sob.

 

“And you’re trying to get yourself killed because of it? Is that what’s going on?”

 

Will looked at him with hatred, shoving his wet hair out of his face. “Perhaps I am.”

 

“Is that how you honor his memory?”

 

“What does it matter?” He spat the words, because it was that or cry again. “He’s dead. He’s dead, and he’ll never know what I do or don’t do.”

  
Woolsey didn’t answer that, only stared back impassively. Will hated the silence, hated the way pain reared up in him again without the distraction of fighting.

 

“What do I do now?” he asked, much quieter. He didn’t know why he was asking Woolsey, except that there was no one else _to_ ask.

 

“You do,” said Woolsey, “what that love of yours would have wanted.” And without another word, he turned and walked back into the inn, leaving Will alone.

 

* * *

 

Will hadn’t been able to bring himself to go back into the inn, save to gather his things. He took Balios from his stall and rode through the night, until he quite literally slipped from the saddle sometime before dawn, and slept slumped against a rocky hill beside the road. When he woke, there was sun on his face, and his whole body was aching from the fight in the courtyard.

 

Worse than that pain was the cold feeling of emptiness, of something that _had_ been there but _wasn’t._ A hollowness, like someone had cut away some vital part of him.

 

It was better, he supposed, than weeping and raging. He forced himself to mark his skin with a healing rune. Then he forced himself to stop shaking when he remembered that Jem would never draw _iratzes_ for him again. Then, cold and calm, he took the knife Jem had given him from his saddlebag.

 

Idly, without care for the pain, he closed his fist around the blade, staining it red. The cut closed almost immediately, due to the rune he’d just put on, but his blood dripped from it in a satisfying way.

 

Will buried the knife - Jem’s knife, and his blood - below an oak tree. He wasn’t sure why.

 

For a while, he stood staring at it, and when he spoke his voice was rough and quiet. “You said we were born and born again. I say there’s a river between the dead and the living. What I do know is that if we are born again, I will find you in another life, and if there is a river, you will wait for me, so we can cross together.” He half-smiled, but there was too much pain in it to feel real. “You hear that, James Carstairs? We’re still bound, you and I. I promised you.”

 

Then Will turned, back towards Balios, and the road to Cadair Idris, and didn’t look back.

 


End file.
